


The Imperfect Art of Madness

by AnonymousMink



Series: Madness Becomes Her [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: AND MUCH MUCH MORE!, AU, All of the trigger warnings, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark fic, F/M, Graphic Violence, Harley Quinn Origin Story, Jerome as the Joker (well proto-joker), Mayhem, Mutilation, Stockholm Syndrome, Strong Language, abusive behaviour, animal cruelty, graphic descriptions of prom, hand holding, including but not limited to:, mentions of self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-07 20:55:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13443216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousMink/pseuds/AnonymousMink
Summary: -- It seemed highly unfair that death should come for her on laundry day, in that ugly purple sweater she'd gotten for her birthday and the blue jeans with the hole she kept forgetting to throw away. Hell, her cheerleader uniform would have been better than this, at least that way she’d get a plum spot on the obituary page.--(AU that takes place in the S4 hiatus ish,  yet another Harley origin story full of murder, mayhem and the contagious properties of madness. Jerome/Harley.Previously titled: 'Meant to be Yours')





	1. Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> Well I'm not sure how this happened but I tripped over a few days ago and apparently wrote a Gotham!AU Harley Quinn fanfic?  
> Weird right? But hey, we're here now, may as well lean into it! I'm honestly not even sure I know enough about this fandom to write this but as they say - fake it 'til ya make it!
> 
> We've got about 6 chapters I think to do this in, the first of which is unbeta'd, my bad, so the blame for all awkwardness is mine and mine alone! I hope to get it cleaned up soon with my writing guru though so stay tuned! <3
> 
> ANYWAY! Thanks so much for being here and giving this fic a chance, if you like it please do leave me a comment and let me know! Your kindness, like madness, is contagious <3

If Harleen had realized how quickly the day was going to go to hell she would have worn a different sweater.

The purple fuzz didn’t suit her, not really, it was too light, too _fussy._ She’d rather die in something more stylish, her red wrap-over shirt with the black capris maybe, or the grey tartan skirt with knee socks.

Something that _said_ something about her.

It seemed highly unfair that death should come for her on laundry day, in the ugly purple sweater she'd gotten for her birthday and the blue jeans with the hole she kept forgetting to throw away. Hell, her cheerleader uniform would have been better than this, at least that way she’d get a plum spot on the obituary page.

 _“Stoooop screaming!”_  The ringleader flicked his hand, a tiny gesture that sent the masked men swinging their guns around wildly as he worked his way around the room. Taunting and teasing the students in turn, sharp questions, mocking looks.

And she was wearing that _fucking_ sweater just asking to be abused.

She was disconnecting from reality, she’d heard that happened sometimes in times of deep stress. It had been in one of her stolen psychology textbooks maybe. She had half a dozen of them all stashed under her bed with half the contents of the drug store makeup counter, ready and waiting for the day she made it to Gotham U. Safe and sound from prying eyes.

Not that her mother _pried_ of course, that would involve caring enough to look.

“What’s your name then lil’ lady?”

Oh hell. It was her turn.

The maniac eyed her up and down theatrically, his jaunty smile made monstrous by the thick scar tissue at either side. Eyes catching, _crinkling,_ even as she tried to hide the worst of her outfit behind her folded arms. The last thing she needed was fashion tips from an Arkham escapee. A _ginger_ Arkham escapee.

_Jerome Valeska._

She recognized him from the news, the mad man who’d escaped death, destruction, and the worst kept Asylum in the country. _Again._ She always kept tabs on the killer of the week, for research. This one had been one of the _Maniax_ hadn’t he? They'd tried to burn down a bus full of cheerleaders once, she remembered it well... they’d won the competition that day without breaking a sweat.

Go Tigers.

“Harleen,” she forced herself to answer, making the mistake of meeting his gaze. It was like looking into in an abyss and finding something sharp toothed smiling back.

Her would-be clinical diagnosis? He was fucking nuts.

It was funny really, he would be the perfect subject for her personal essay if she didn’t end up dead and buried before she could even get the first line down. Her chest ached, fear licking at the underside of her skin as he leant in so close she could feel him breathing.

He smelt like cheap soap and gunpowder.

“ _Harl-een,”_ he twisted the name on his tongue, something exotic and just a little bit contemptible about it when he said it, “that’s a _stupid_ name.”

“Sorry, _Jerome,”_ she bit back for the same reason she’d intentionally stuck her back handspring and broken her arm on the day of Olympic qualifiers. The same reason she was no longer Sharon Quinzel’s special little girl.

She _hated_ having her control taken from her.

The consequence back then hadn’t been so dire though. A lack of motherly love and a big ugly surgery scar weren’t the same as painful death.

Speaking of her scar...

She saw the exact moment he spotted it, the ugly red line flashing along her wrist like a neon cry for attention.

His face lit up.

“Well well what’s this then,” he dragged her arm away from her chest, holding it up like a prize even as she flinched away. His touch was too hot, like he was running a fever. “Looks like _someone’s_ got scars of her own huh? I know the feeling, no one understand how _hard_ it is to be so pretty and popular all the time. So tell me, did ya do it yourself? _”_

 _Painful death,_ she tried to remind herself, _painful death Harleen._

“Get bent,” she snapped, _definitely_ disassociating. She yanked her arm free, cradling it to her chest as angry heat whipped through her, prickling behind her eyes as she glared at him, “like _another_ Arkham escapee holding the city hostage is ground breaking stuff.”

“Now now now girly,” he was so close it made her heart squish like a bunny under a truck, the dull flash of his knife suddenly blinding her, “that’s fighting talk that is. I - uh - I pride myself on my originality ya see.”

“Then _do_ something.”

_Fuck._

She should have _used_ her would be knowledge, summoned up every thing she’d ever read about dealing with head cases and tried to understand him. Coax him into leaving somehow, maybe she would have done if she was older or wiser or thinking straight at all.

Instead she’d antagonized the mad man.

Silence echoed in her skull, pulse loud enough to drown in as he glared at her from right up close. Something cold and sharp pressed to the softest part of her neck as he crowded her vision, demanding all of her attention.

He was going to be the last thing she ever saw.

“Not a bad idea, blondie,” he considered harshly, “Is that your real hair colour by the way, you call tell me I can keep a secret- never mind, not important,” something warm and wet trickled down her throat. _Blood,_ she thought dazedly, _it’s blood._ She was facing imminent destruction and all she could focus on was how oddly bright his eyes were. Green and blue and red. Like tiny worlds on fire. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

He was gone, whirling around and stalking away from her like they’d never spoken at all.

She gasped, something that was almost a sob, almost a laugh ripping from her lungs as she pressed her hand against her neck, a tiny red stain painting her fingers. A nick. Nothing more. Nothing fatal. He hadn’t killed her after all. She followed his path with her eyes, unable to look away.

Was it weird that she was almost disappointed about it?

—-

He’d be damned, that lil bubblegum blonde had been right. He was better than this, better than the usual parade of hostages and hullabaloo.

This town need _chaos._ Real chaos. Something the kiddies would _remember,_ something to scar ‘em up in their soft parts in a way they’d never forget.

But what?

He’d come here on instinct, usually he had plans. Plans on top plans. Something _inspiring, grandiose,_ something with _panache_ , but not today. Today he had been… well _bored._ He’d been out for _weeks_ without any real action, the GCPD too busy with their mob wars to catch up to him.

What did a guy have to do to get a little attention? Show up naked at the precinct with a bow on? A bazooka?

Still, _still,_ there was no excuse for laziness. And he had been lazy, go to a high school with a coupla the gang, cause a little ruckus. What was he, a kid in a trenchcoat not getting any nookie?

Ugh. Weak.

He ground his teeth together, waving away Bozo and Bucko when they tried to get his attention. The crazies were always so desperate for attention, it was charming except for when it wasn’t.

“Keep ‘em in line, wouldcha?” He growled, gesturing wildly to the huddled teens in the cafeteria, “anyone who acts up gets a good spanking.”

There was an oh so expected wobble of terror through the room, dull. It was dull dull dull.

And blondie still wasn’t squealing like the others, still gazing at him with that dazed look of hers. Like she’d gone through fear and come out the other side.

It was... refreshing.

Usable maybe.

But now was not the time, oh no no no not the time at all. He was plotting. Plotting and planning and making something _magical._ Something inspired and…

She was still looking at him.

Damnit maybe he should poke one of those baby blues out, it was unsettling him. He didn’t get unsettled.

“What?” He snapped, her head jerking up as if she hadn’t even noticed she’d been lookin’ at him like his fly was undone in public. It wasn’t was it? Nope. No excuse. “You got something else to say?”

She shook her head, ah there was the fear. Not enough of it maybe but just the right amount to soothe his manly ego.

Right, back to the planning. Planning, planning.

He could kill em all of course, little obvious, little _passé._ Gotham look at what has become of your young. Look how… dead they are.

Ughhhh dull. Dead dull. BORING.

And some kid was sobbing, big nasty football type making a big nasty nasal sound that went right through his head like a nail through… well his head.

“Would you shut up!” He didn’t register killing him until he was wiping the blood off his hand and Jock boy was gurgling his last, “better. Much better. Let a guy think wouldcha.”

The sticky red glaze captured his attention, bright, _inspiring,_ but then the dead kid's friends were snuffling back their screams and everything was pale and dull again. Even the blonde had flinched a lil'. Maybe she just thought he was being _unoriginal._ Ugh. Harleen. Stupid name.

He despaired at the youth of today.

_That was it._

The idea hit him like a car, subtler than usual maybe, it wasn't an eighteen wheeler or anything, but still _zesty_ . He had charges set to blow the sidewalk outside when the cops turned up but that could take _forever,_ in the meantime he had a golden opportunity to shape some young minds.

It was time for a little game.

\---

She couldn’t look away after that, even as her skin _crawled_ with the memory of his touch. It was like being in a room with a rabid tiger, a _hungry_ rabid tiger. It was fascinating.

And terrifying.

Definitely terrifying.

His attention lashed back and forth like a whip until all at once he froze, the angry furrow of his brow smoothing out, the scars tracing his face un-puckering just a little. Rust red painted his skin as he wiped a hand thoughtfully against his chin, smearing Kevin’s blood without seeming to notice.

Poor Kevin.

She’d just agreed to go to senior prom with him too.

“Gather round kiddywinks,” Jerome crowed suddenly, splitting the muffled hush of the room like a gunshot and gesturing impatiently as the crowd pulled back instead of forward, “c’mon c’mon c’mon don’t make me make _them_ drag you now.”

They shuffled forward as his gang lurched towards them, it was amazing how effective a motivator an assault rifle was. She kept to the middle of the pack as the sixty or so students who had happened to be the cafeteria that day were rounded up in the centre of the room. She wondered what had happened to the rest of the school. If they’d escaped, died, if anyone had thought to call the goddamn police yet.

“We’re gonna play a little game - kids like that right? Not just any game, a _fun_ game!” He clapped gleefully when they were all assembled and she felt her stomach twist, “So who’s up for a few rounds of truth or dare then?”

Well that sounded _ominous_.

Fear swelled beneath her skin, a hot and cold flush of terror even as she distanced herself further from the moment. If she was lucky she wouldn’t just get a scholarship out of this nightmare but a whole damned book deal too.

A Lifetime movie even.

Some hot young actor could play Kevin, maybe they’d change it up, have him dying to save her in some big grand gesture as she wept prettily beside him. They could make it _mean_ something.

“First up - you, red head, second row. Truth or dare?”

He picked Kari. Bad choice, she was too quiet. Too scared. Harleen realized dazedly she was going to die.

“I- I- I-” Kari stuttered, teeth chattering so hard they could all hear it as she shied backwards, eyes wheeling around in desperation.

“Uh-uh.” He tutted, making a sound like a buzzer before his face softened ever so slightly, a funhouse reflection of handsome, “now now, no crying. I'm not a monster, you can forfeit your turn if you wanna? Yeah? Wanna do that.”

He looked so different _,_ kind and understanding and _wrong_.

 _Don’t do it,_ Harleen thought, bile rising in her throat even as Kari nodded shakily, _don’t-_

 _“_ Y-yeah.”

**BANG.**

“Whoopsie, forgot to mention the penalty if you forfeit is death. NEXT!” his gaze whipped around with manic glee and her stomach turned over entirely, he was looking at her. Right at her.  “No, no, no, YOU! Green hoodie, right there.”

He pulled a boy out from the crowd beside her and she let out a harsh breath as something panged through her. Relief? Disappointment? She didn’t fucking know anymore, she was a mess of feelings. It was like PMS on a global scale, churning her up inside as Danny stumbled forward.

Danny was okay, he was calmer than Kevin had been. Stronger than Kari.

 _Come on Danny,_ she bit her lip hard, willing him to step up, _play the game._

“Truth.”

She felt like cheering, keeping it in with a harsh clack of her teeth. They had to play the game to survive, to fill as much time as possible before the cops showed.

 _If_ the cops showed.

“Killjoy,” Jerome cackled, “But fair is fair, let’s see what deep dark secrets we can expose in this one. Hmm… Same sex fantasies maybe? Dirty little drug habit? Nahhhh let’s go for this… truthfully now, would you rather… cut off your own hand or have to cut off this guy's? Tick tock.”

And so the game went on.

She watched as her classmates turned on each other, on themselves. The scream as Danny tried to amputate his own hand with a pen knife. She forced it down but she knew even then that sound would haunt her, that it would wake her in the night like a goddamn ghost.

Mickey had to choose a friend to lose an ear. Terry fought Steve until they were both slumped over and bleeding. The sobbing became a chorus, high screams and low moans punctuating it as they fell apart.

Pick truth and chose someone or something to go, pick a dare and do it yourself. Either way mayhem would follow.

And then he was looking at her again, cut glass eyes spearing her like she was the only person in the room.

“It’s _Harl-een’s_ turn, nope that name is too damn ugly for a pretty gal like you. We’re friends now aren’t we? Ima call you _Harley.”_ Jerome slung an arm around her shoulder, his skin was still too hot, scalding her as he pulled her close, “So Harrrrrrley girl, truth or dare?”

She bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted copper.

“Dare.”

Time to go out swinging.

“Now _that’s_ more like it! A dare! Ooooh what shall we do…” the warm huff of his breath burnt against her cheek as he considered her from far, far too close, “we’ve had carnage, we’ve had grudge matches and mutilation. Now it’s time for something a little more grown up don’t cha think? Grown up game for a grown up girl. I dare you to… kill someone. Easy, huh? Don’t tell the others but I’ve got a _soft_ spot for you.”

He pulled the gun from his waistband, his words ringing dully in her head as she struggled to register them. As her classmates looked at her with raw _fear._ Not me their eyes screamed as Jerome made a show of emptying the clip, leaving just one bullet for her in the chamber. Then he was behind her, holding onto her shoulders and the gun was in her hand.

_Oh god._

It was heavy, heavier than she remembered when daddy used to take her shooting in the Bronx.

 _No daughter of mine is gonna be afraid in her own home,_ he’d grinned with his crossword smile, _c’mon pumpkin just squeeze the trigger._

Of course that was before he went back in the slammer and mom had moved them out to Gotham for a fresh start. _Great job mom._

“C’mon c’mon Harley girl don’t let me down now,” he was wheeling her back and forth like an arcade game, her classmates spread out for her shooting gallery, “go ahead and pull the trigger before you forfeit the game.”

If she’d been a better person maybe she’d have turned it on herself. Gone down like a hero, pride of place in the newspaper spread. Memorial fountain on the lawn.

But Harleen didn’t _want_ to die.

She stiffened, peering back over her shoulder and flinching at how close he was. “I just kill someone? _Anyone_?”

“Sure sure,” she could feel the scrape of his scars against her cheek as he gestured impatiently at the crowd, the wet press of his lips against the shell of her ear shuddering down her spine, “knock yourself out blondie.”

Of course there was another option…

She wrenched herself free of his grip, stomach clenching into a knot as she whipped around so fast the world spun. The gun aimed square between his eyes.

 _Go on Harleen,_ her hands were shaking on the hilt, the trigger sharp beneath her finger, _end it now. Be the hero of your own story._

“Well that’s a plot twist,” He smirked, echoing her thoughts even as he held up his hands, waving down his goons as they pointed their weapons on her, “no no boys, fairs fair. I did say _anyone._ Any person, I am _technically_ people - although really Harley, I thought we were _friends_.”

God why were his eyes so bright. Why was he still _smiling,_ baring his teeth like an animal as he waggled his eyebrows at her.

“Come on the anticipation is _killing_ me!”

Something wet trickled down her cheek, a tear. _Perfect._ Her stomach rolled, her breakfast rising up in her throat to choke her are as her heart beat in time with his mocking.

_Do it do it do it DO IT._

**BANG.**

Her shoulder ached, she’d forgotten the kick back. Forgotten the sharp burn of gunpowder in her nose, the echo in her ears.

The sick rush of power. Of _horror._

The masked goon on the left dropped like a felled tree, crashing to the floor in slow motion.

Leaking red. She’d got him through the eye, she’d been aiming for his heart.

Click. Click. Click.

She realized dazedly she was still pulling the trigger as the gun was wrenched from her hands. Fingers bruising as Jerome pulled it away, slapping her on the shoulder like she’d just pulled off a gold medal routine.

“Atta girl,” he laughed, he was always laughing, “Right through the eye, _pow._ Although now I’m a henchman down and that’s just rude. Just saying. So come on then, tell me, how’d it feel?”

His voice lilted, a picture perfect imitation of the school shrink as the horror crept up on her at what she’d done. What she _hadn’t_ done. God what was wrong with her. Why had she - what hadn’t she -

“Come on Harls, don’t leave a guy hanging.”

“That’s not how the game works,” she heard herself say through the fog in her head, dragging her eyes off of the corpse she’d made. She could _smell_ his blood, see his brains splattering the checkered floor _._ “I had my go, your turn.”

“What? I’m the master of ceremonies I don’t have to play -” He scoffed before his expression turned conciliatory, “fine fine, come on, tell me how it felt and I’ll play my turn, just for _you_.”

He was holding onto her shoulders again, leaning into her space like nothing else existed. His eyes so hungry it hurt to look at him. She’d killed a man. She’d killed a man. She’d killed-

“Tell me Harley girl, how’d you _feel?”_

She swallowed the bile coating her tongue, looking straight into the madness and not flinching this time.

“I don’t feel anything.” His face twisted but didn’t give him a chance to go on any more, not with tears still burning behind her eyes and panic clawing in her chest ready to suck her down at any minute. “Your turn, truth or dare.”

“Truth - no dare! Dare! Come on blondie gimmie your worst, lookin’ for someone to take you to prom? Nah of course not, pretty girl like you the boys are probably _lining_ up.”

She laughed, she couldn’t help herself, a choked panicked sound that broke those last few strands of reality holding her in place.

“Y’killed my prom date,” she said, hating how her accent thickened when she was stressed. She’d worked so hard to lose it when they moved, anything to fit in. To survive.

“Did I?” He broke into bright, manic peals of laughter, “Classic! Well gotta fight off the competition, do you prefer - uh - roses or orchids for your _corsage_?”

His eyebrows were working again, _insinuating,_ his hand clenched hard enough to hurt around her shoulder.

_She killed a man. She killed-_

She held onto the pain, welcoming it as the bruises formed beneath his finger tips. It helped clear her head, keep her tethered to the moment as she saw blue and red flashes lighting up the windows at last. Sirens cutting through the sound of her fractured breathing.

“I dare you-“ she wished she could look away, the madness in his eyes seemed to _drag_ at her, she wished she’d killed him when she had the chance, “to walk out of here with all your goons, right now, and leave us all alive.”

The sirens were screaming, a voice on a megaphone blaring into the room although she couldn’t make out the words through the sound of her pulse beating in her ears.

“That’s it?” Jerome pouted, _pouted,_ at her, looking so disappointed in her she felt her stomach twist. For a second she thought it was over for her, that they’d open fire, one last stand. One last nightmare. Instead Jerome sighed and pulled away, “Fiiiine. Come on lads party’s over. Lemme know when to pick you up for Prom though, Harrrrr-ley, ‘k?”

Then they were gone.

The low groans of her classmates filled the room in his wake, a steady sobbing sound that balled up in her head like cotton wool.

Harleen didn’t cry.

She couldn’t, not yet, it wasn’t _real_ yet.

An explosion went off at the front of the school, rocking the ground and raining plaster dust from the ceiling. The screaming was unbearable but it was _outside_ , he’d kept his word.

They were alive.

As soon as she could she pulled herself up, yanking off her sweater as the emergency staff rushed in at last. Stepping over a body without looking who it was, she balled the fabric up and dumped it in the garbage.

She felt her lips twist, a grim parody of a smile as the paramedics pulled her away.

Life was officially too short for ugly sweaters.

  



	2. Prom or Hell?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jerome's never been to prom.  
> Harleen's never been to one quite like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again guys and gals!  
> Thanks so much to the people who read/kudo'd/bookmarked/and or reviewed that first chapter, I honestly cannot tell you what it means to me! <3 I'm afraid that again this chapter is unbeta'd as of yet so once more all errors are mine and mine alone and you have my humblest of apologies!
> 
> Anyway - here's part two! If you end up liking it I would LOVE to hear from you - y'know what they say, a comment a day keeps the Asylum Doctors away! ;-)

 

He’d forgotten all about her until he saw the newspaper, there was too much else to think about. Shoes and ships and sealing wax, cabbages and _violent murder_. Opening the door to madness and trying his best to push Gotham through it.

They didn’t make it easy for him.

But she… she’d had potential. Hell, she’d dropped Bozo like a pro when he’d given her the chance, almost taken him out too in the process. He wondered for a moment why she didn’t, what had stopped her from pulling the trigger when she’d had the chance. The dull muzzle pointed square between his eyes and the glory of killing Gotham’s most wanted riding high in her eyes.

Then he shrugged and moved on, there was no point crying over un-spilt brains.

_Wayne Foundation to Host Prom for Survivors of Gotham State High Massacre._

There she was under the headline, right smack bang in the middle of those ever so lucky _survivors_ as they were led from what remained of their school, swaddled in blankets and wailing. She wasn’t wailing though. Oh no, not a tear in sight as she stared straight ahead like she couldn’t even see them, a strange little half smile on her Cupid’s bow lips.

The picture needed more oomph. Too pretty, too _perfect._ He snatched up a marker, red of course, and painted a real smile on for her. Nice and big.

God what was her name? Something ridiculous and old fashioned and- he snapped up in his seat, scars twinging as he grinned.

_Harleen._

His Harley Girl.

Maybe it was time to pay her another visit. The thought unfurled, the idea that maybe if he could push one person, just _one_ , over the edge the rest would follow. Like lemmings. She was the perfect candidate after all, the blonde haired, blue eyed doll he’d bet any money on being a cheerleader.

Maybe if he could twist her...

The thought stuck, a pleasant tingle tracing the length of his spine as he drummed his fingers against the table edge. It was time for a little trip, he’d never been to a prom before.

He needed a new suit.

 

\---

 

“I still don’t understand, what were you _thinking_ Harls?” Melinda had hold of her arm, sharp nails digging into her skin as she dragged her into the mall’s ladies room. It had been a month since the _event_ and she still hadn’t shut up about it, Harleen was hopeful it’d all calm down once the funerals were done but nope, Melinda was _still_ harping on about it.

Oh well, at least she didn’t have to wear black anymore. She’d run out of decent dresses after the third wake.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” Harleen shrugged, pulling away to face herself in the mirror above the sink as Melinda disappeared into a stall. She frowned at a smudge in her eyeliner, pulling out her makeup bag to fix it, her gaze lingering just a second too long on the Hello Kitty band-aid she’d stuck over the cut on her neck.

 _His_ cut.

It had healed over already but for some reason she still wore the band-aid where the little white scar was.

“You could have gotten yourself killed!” Melinda was the picture of disapproval as she reemerged, the same blend of fear and horror scrunching her features that Harleen had long since gotten sick of. It was better than the _sympathy_ though, the cloying look the police had given her as they’d patted her arm and told her it wasn’t her fault. Told her how _brave_ she’d been.

She hadn’t felt brave.

She’d felt… sick. And not even for the right reasons, she thought once she’d gotten over the shock of it the tears would come. That she’d crumple up like a paper napkin and sob her heart out over what she’d done.

But she didn’t.

She’d killed a man. Shot him dead. And the only thing she felt was _regret_ . Regret it hadn’t been Jerome, that she hadn’t been the hero of her story after all. Whenever she woke up gasping it wasn’t from the accusatory dead, dull eyes of her victim. Well, his one eye at least. It was two perfectly blue green eyes staring back at her, alive and _laughing._

So she did what she’d always done when faced with personal trauma, she moved on. Every cloud had a silver lining and hers was obvious.

“But I _didn’t_ die did I?” She sighed breezily, “see, right here, alive and well. _And_ I got him to leave. Anyway it’s not all bad, I bet I could get into the Gotham Psychology program with or without the gymnast scholarship now.”

Melinda looked appalled. “How can you even think about that now?”

How could she not?

She’d wanted to be a psychologist since before she even knew exactly what they did. She just knew she wanted to be doctor in a white coat fixing other people's lives for them, like the one her mom had taken her to the first time daddy got locked up. Maybe then she could even fix her parents too, stop her dad from fucking up again, stop her mom from being such a bitch about it when he did. Everything could be picture perfect, a smile and a hug and a ‘ _Thank you Dr Quinzel.’_

That was the dream at least.

This had just given her a boost. Especially since the school closure meant she could spend her days working on her college applications at the library. Her mom, true to form, didn’t give a shit so long as she was out of the house.

If there was anything written about the Gotham State School incident that she hadn’t already read she’d eat her prom dress.

If she ever found one that was.

“Dont be such a killjoy, Mel,” she sighed, hooking her bag back over her shoulder and linking her arm through her new best friend, it wasn’t like she had much choice left after all what with the reduced school population. Best to make the effort. “We have to look forward don’t we?” She added sweetly, “Focus on living our best lives, for those who _can’t_ anymore.”

It worked like a charm.

“You’re right Harls,” Melinda sniffled, nodding jerkily, “we owe it to them to go on.”

“We do,” she agreed solemnly before breaking into a grin, “so let’s head to Jacey’s and see if they have any dresses worth wearing!”

 

\---

  
  


“Shouldn’t we - I ‘unno boss, be doing something _bigger_?”

Jerome rolled his eyes, adjusting and re-adjusting his bow tie in the broken mirror. He had to make the right impression after all, even if the smaller minds of his compadres didn’t quite understand _why_.

Presentation was nine tenths of the law. Something like that anyway.

“Bucko, my buddy, we’ve _done_ big. City wide blackouts, mass murder, panic in the streets, explosions, _boom!_ Now it’s time to try something else a - whatta they call it? _Micro aggression,”_ satisfied that it sat rakishly enough at his collar he smoothed down his lapels, “we gotta hit em where it hurts. Show ‘em that noone, nowhere is immune to our brand of crazy. Not even their precious lil Suzy high school. No no no, trust me on this. We break one of them, we can break em all!”

Lemmings he thought again. Lemmings leaping off the cliffs of insanity and right into his waiting hands.

“Oh - okay boss, whatever you say.”

Grinning to himself Jerome slapped his lackey warmly about the face, holding it between his hands just a little bit tighter than was necessary, “good thing too, cos if I ever thought you doubted me - I’d have to kill ya!”

He laughed. Bucko laughed. It was all good.

For now.

“Well we better get a wriggle on, can’t leave the little lady waiting now can we? Where’s the limo?”

“The limo, boss?”

Okay, now he was just _trying_ to get himself killed. It was only the thought of getting blood on his new suit that stopped Jerome from reaching for a weapon, he always got itchy trigger fingers on a big night. It was a quirk.

“Yes, Bucko, _the limo,_ the one I told you and the gang to pick up ohhh about an hour ago. Go and check the front for it would you.”

“Oh- Oh! Right-“ Bucko bumbled off and Jerome sighed. He was surrounded by lunatics and idiots, which was admittedly just the way he liked it but still, would it kill them to have some professional pride now and then?

He laughed at that. If it didn’t kill them he always could.

He was still laughing when Bucko came back with the relieved grin of someone who knew he wasn’t gonna kick the bucket just yet. Excellent. Perfect. Onwards. The limo was waiting out front, another fruit loop scrambling to open the door for him as he swept out with a flourish. Spitting on his hands he slicked back his hair just to make sure it was perfect before he turned to his waiting crew.

“Don’t wait up boys!”

The hollering followed him all the way up the block.

It was show time.  


—-

 

Dress, on. Make up, done. Hair - Harleen squinted into her vanity, teasing the few curls she’d left artfully out of her elegant up-do.

_Perfect._

The doorbell rang and her heart leapt, if her mom had been the kind to take pictures, to fawn and faint over her pretty daughter and her dashing escort she would have stayed in her room. She would have waited for the perfect moment when he was already inside the house before she descended the stairs like something out of a movie in her floaty dress, a cloud of crimson tulle falling from her waist in waves, her cleavage tastefully displayed beneath a silver necklace. Her heart would beat faster and James, her fill in prom date since Kevin was no longer an option, would stand like a perfect idiot, jaw dropping when he caught sight of her.

They’d smile and pose and… and it wasn’t a movie and Sharon Quinzel was already shouting up the stairs for her to hurry up and go. She sighed, snatching her clutch from the side and dousing herself in a final mist of Angel Innocence.

“Night mom,” she yelled as she pounded down the stairs, “don’t wait up.”

If Sharon replied she didn’t hear it, too busy darting out into the night and slamming the door behind her as fast as humanly possible. James didn’t need to see the messy reality of her family home, crumpled beer cans and stale pizza boxes didn’t exactly fit with the princess image she’d just spent four hours perfecting.

“Right on ti-”“

She froze, the words dying off with a weak gasp as she caught sight of the man waiting for her.

Not James.

No no no not James at all.

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes _Harleyyy Girl.”_

It was a nightmare, it had to be, there was no way Jerome Valeska was standing on the sidewalk in front of her house wearing a bright purple tuxedo and saying her name like a song, hands clasped around a bouquet of crushed flowers.

_Roses._

“For the lady,” he threw them at her, not giving her chance to scream before she was being hustled towards the limo. The driver holding the door open with one hand, the other busy pointing a gun at her. “After you.”

“ _What_ -” she strangled a shriek as she was tossed into the car, landing on something soft and warm and _moving._

She took it in a series of gruesome snapshots.

Melinda on the floor beneath her. Paul. James. Bound wrists. Gagged mouths. The stink of sweat. Fear. Cheap cologne. Strangers. Guns.

Blood on the leathery seats.

“Whoops,” Jerome pulled her off the floor, restarting the world again as he hauled her into her seat beside him. The engine rumbled to life beneath them as he reached forward for Melinda, his knife flashing in the half light, “how embarrassing I forgot the corsage, pretend you can’t see this.”

“What are you doing?” She asked from somewhere far away as he seized her wrist and set to work trying to tie the flowers on. The lilac ribbons stained rusty red.

It had been a joke. A _bad_ joke. _‘_ _Lemme know when to pick you up for Prom though, Harrrrrley’_. It was something he’d said just to fuck with her when they’d last met, rolling her name into something unrecognizable.

She never thought it was actually going to _happen._

“What does it look like?” He asked, tongue held between his teeth in concentration as he double knotted the bow, “I’m taking you to prom baby doll! I promised! Hey, be honest now - do you think we have a chance at king and queen? I know I know it’s last minute but I really feel like we could do it.”

Oh God it was happening.

“ _Why?”_

Why her? Why now? Why would he even _remember_ her?

“Why not?” He grinned, adjusting the flowers carefully, “My face, your brains, we’re a shoe in!”

“I don’t-“

“Oh your right, I hoped the blonde thing was fake cos otherwise we’re in reeeal trouble-“

“I have a 4.0 GPA,” she heard herself snap, cutting off his rambling sharply. She couldn’t bear the sound of his voice, so casual in the midst of all the horror.

For a second there was silence then he started laughing again.

A shudder wracked through her at the sound. She hadn’t forgotten his laugh, how it worked its way under her skin until she could feel it beating in her chest like a living thing

It woke her up three times a week in a cold sweat.

“Brains and beauty!” he cackled, “I really am the luckiest guy in Gotham tonight!” He was still holding onto her wrist, her _hand_ , calloused fingers lacing between hers as he hmmed seriously for a moment, yanking her arm up so he could see it better, “Still not sure about this scar though, sort of ruins the _look_ doesn’t it? Too much of a cry for help.”

“It wasn’t-”

“ _Oh?_ ” His fingers tightened as she tried to pull away, the small bones in her hand grinding together until she stopped moving. Until she answered him.

“It’s a surgery scar.” she admitted coldly, staring at anything but him, “I broke my arm two years ago, they had to put a plate in.”

“Well that’s disappointing,” he tilted his head and suddenly his knife was flashing again, “here, I’ll give it a better story. Something to remember me by.”

She felt the blood rushing from her face, insides squeezing painfully as he held her firmly in place and sliced into her. Cutting a jagged line across the top of the long, slightly curved scar.

A ‘J.’

He was turning it into a ‘ _J_.’

She forced down a scream even as the world spun around her. Biting her lip so hard it bled, leaking down her chin as he carved into her.

The ones who screamed and sobbed died.

Then he stripped back the skin in a sharp twist and she couldn’t stop it, a sharp sound bursting from her throat as the blood flowed, leaving her panting. Tears staining her face

“There ya go, good thing you wore that dress ya know, perfect for the stains,” he smiled at her so brightly for a moment her vision failed her and she saw instead the boy who’d been in the newspaper articles she’d looked at when she couldn’t stop herself. Picking through the library’s archive for mentions of him with a twisted curiosity she would never admit too.

The boy who’d never known his father, who’d been failed by his mother. The one who was almost handsome. Almost pitiful.

Harleen thought she was going to pass out.

“Oh no no don’t you quit on me now Harley girl.” His head turned sharply to the other goons in the car, the ones holding her friends hostage, “Laney, bandage for the lady.”

She didn’t register him wrapping it around the fresh wound, didn’t notice that the lavender silk had been ripped off the bottom of Melinda's dress until hours later when it was almost unrecognisable from the blood. Right then it was all she could do to keep herself upright as her brain threatened to overload from it all.

 _You’re better than this Harleen_ , she screamed at herself, forcing herself upright as the bile threatened to choke her, _you’ve survived plenty already, you can survive this._

She met Melinda's eyes across the car, red and swollen and dripping mascara and she struggled helplessly against her bonds.

She wouldn’t be like that.

She wouldn’t be another _victim._

Wiping at her own eyes with her free hand she patted her hair back into place and turned her gaze away, gulping hard as the pain throbbed in her arm. An endless stabbing echo that had already drenched through the makeshift bandage.

“Better?” He asked sweetly, patting her hand in mock kindness even as it set her nerves screaming.

She forced a bright smile, looking at him head on for the first time since she’d been thrown in the car, “Better.”

No more screaming, no more sobbing, the ones who didn’t play the game didn’t survive.

 

—-

 

Harley Girl tripped on the way out of the limo, glaring at the ground as if it was the sidewalk’s fault for leaping up at her. _Weirdo._ He caught her arm as she stumbled, ignoring her wince as he eyed up their destination. Excitement itched beneath his skin now they were finally _here._ Showtime. Spotlights.

“Can I borrow that?” Her voice cut him off.

She was pointing to his knife, still tucked safely at his hip. He blinked, flicking his gaze back and forth before shrugging and holding it out, “sure, why not?”

She hadn’t killed him before after all. Maybe she would now, maybe she wouldn’t, the fun was in finding out. Although he had to admit he’d be disappointed if she tried, he didn’t want to get all dressed up only to drop her before they made it into the building. He would, of course, but it would be such a _waste._

Harleen didn’t lunge for him, instead she turned away pulling at her hazy daze of red skirts and dragging the blade through its layers. Hacking at the front of her dress until her peachy knees were exposed to the air. Long legs free from their fluffy prison.

“Thanks,” she peered critically at her handiwork, checking that the cut was even before handing the knife back to him without looking.

“No problemo.”

Total _weirdo_.

It was a great start!

Raking a hand back through his hair he whistled up his crew, “Geronimo keep the engine running wouldcha, I figure we’ll just stop in, say hi, have a coupla glasses of punch then we can get on with the _after party_.”

He lowered his voice, ladening every insinuation he could fit into the sentence and seeing her flush ever so slightly even as she bared her teeth at him.

“I thought you wanted to stay for the crowning?”

“Well of _course_ sweet cheeks, we don’t wanna miss our big moment!”

They’d really gone all out for the kiddies on this one. Balloons, buffet table, nice fancy hall. Not a big one though, obviously, that’d be awkward considering there weren’t many people left to fill it. He found himself chuckling at that, humming happily to himself as they passed under the twinkley arch into the crowd. The photographer had her camera up, halfway ready to snap their entrance before she seemed to realize what she was looking at.

“Smile, Harley,” he elbowed her, pleased to see her smile stretch to rictus proportions as the terrified photographer clicked and the flash went off. He cleared his throat, the music dying as he pulled his date into the centre of the fray, “Wooooah! Who’s ready to _party?”_

They didn’t scream, they never did a first, it was more of a _ruffle._ A wave of hushed gasps and the far off tinkling of breaking glass as someone dropped their drink. Then the gasp became a whisper became a groan became a - ah yes, the screams, there they were.

“What?” he looked at Harley in mock surprise, “Was it something I said?”

“I don’t think we were supposed to bring outsiders as dates.” She said with perfect sincerity and he found himself laughing all over again, cackling really.

Oh she was _funny._

“I think you can make an exception can’t you party people?” He turned back to the crowd, arms thrown out like the consummate showman he prided himself on being, “Brucie Wayne’s an old friend of mine after all, he isn’t here is he? We’ve got lots to catch up on- no? That’s a shame. Oh well, more time to spend with my be- _eau-_ tiful date! Whaddya say Harley? Wanna dance?”

Her smile never faltered, sharp white teeth showing through smudged red lipstick and dried blood. She looked much prettier this way, roughed up a little, pale from the blood loss and glaring through mascara-blackened eyes.

Less boringly _perfect._

Maybe he should go in to the beauty field, start doing makeovers professionally… Nah. He swept her into his arms instead, providing his own accompaniment when the DJ stayed deathly silent. Buzzkill. Oh well, he could more than make up for it, singing loudly and completely off-key as he waltzed her theatrically around the growing space in the middle of the floor.

“Dah-Dah-Dah-Dum-Dah! Dah-Dah-Dah-Dum-Dah- _ouch_! Back on the four Harls, back on the four,” he winced as she stepped on his foot, then grinned as she did again.

“Oops,” she blinked with a razor edged innocence, “sorry _Jerome._ ”

“Aww sweetie, don’t I get a cute nickname too? C’mon I got dressed up for you and everything, how about _pookie_ instead, _puddin?”_

“ _J?”_ She asked coldly, blood still trickling down her arm onto their joined hands.

“Nah that’s… that’s _too_ informal maybe, I’m a professional after all Harls. Gotta remember that. _Mister._ Mister J. _”_

“ _Mister J._ ”

Her smile never moved, never flickered even as her eyes grew dark as storms. A simmering world of icy anger, pain and _hatred._ It was beautiful. He dipped her without warning, earning a nice little shriek of surprise before he dropped her completely and turned back to the DJ.

“Crowning time! I promised the- uh... Harley?” he looked around in surprise when she wasn’t beside him, giving her his best shit-eating grin as she pulled herself angrily off the floor. Wiping down her grazed knees. “I promised the lil’ lady after all.”

 

\---

 

It was amazing how much clearer her head became when he moved away, like his very presence shut down the few working brain cells she had left. He was too loud, too terrifying, too _real._ More than anyone else she’d ever met, like he’d crossed into a realm _beyond_ reality, somewhere full of tuneful screaming and zany comic book colours.

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but surviving.

She pulled herself up slowly, stalling as she checked herself for grazes and he put on his _show._ Bastard. It gave her time to think though, to empty her mind of everything but what had to happen next _._

She couldn’t rely on anyone else to save her this time, one look at her classmates told her that. Even the teachers crowding the edge of the room had frozen. She was alone in the spotlight, more eyes on her than at any competition, more on the line than any medal. Fuck them. Fuck all of them. She’d save herself.

One chance had slipped away from her already, she’d gotten the knife off him without even trying. Making a show of cutting her dress short as she eyed up a way to finish him off. Her nerve had failed her, there were too many goons, too many guns. All up close and personal with nowhere to run. She needed to get him here, with the crowd to escape in, before it was too late.

He grabbed hold of her wrist again and the thoughts were swallowed away, crushing her bloodied corsage as he dragged her towards the stage. Gleeful. That was a good word for him. Insane was a better one.

 _Narcissistic personality,_ she reminded herself of the notes she’d made as she stumbled up the stairs wishing she’d thought to wear lower heels, _egomaniac, sociopathic, psychopathic-_

The diagnosis helped, keeping her steady as he grabbed the envelopes from the trembling host and ripped them open.

“Prom king is… drum roll please,” the lunatics at his back clanked their guns, a harsh metallic sound as the others looked up at them in terror, “Danny Myers! Oh that’s disappointing, oh well, come on up Danny. Hey - I know you!”

She couldn’t keep from shivering as Danny mounted the stairs, he still had what remained of his wrist in a cast, the surgeons hadn’t been able to put him back together again after all.

“Give him a _hand_ would you.”

Danny didn’t laugh. She didn’t either.

Jerome shoved the plastic crown on Danny’s head carelessly and turned to the next card.

“And for your prom queen…” another rattle of weapons, punctuated by a sharp shriek from the crowd, “Miss Daisy Shae! Sorry Harls,” he added in a stage whisper, “I voted for you.”

She forced herself to smile as Daisy was prodded out of the crowd, shaking like a leaf in a storm in the centre of the stage.

The worst part of it, the real kicker _,_ was that Harleen couldn’t help but feel a little bit _disappointed._ Jealous even. She’d worked so hard at fitting in, she made friends, she cheered for the team, not to mention the fact she’d single handedly saved all of their _asses_ last time Jerome came knocking.

And they’d voted for _her?_ Daisy ‘no personality’ Shae?

Ungrateful fucks.

The thought lasted only as long as Jerome’s pantomime, forcing the audience to clap under threat of death at the sobbing prom couple.

“Aren’t they lovely folks? Of course if for any reason our crowned couple is unable to fulfil their reign well then, I guess someone would have to take over for them…”

Her stomach dropped.

**BANG.**

**BANG.**

Jerome was cackling again, the sound turning into static in her head as Danny’s blood seeped into the fabric of her dress.

Red on red.

Like he’d said, good for stains.

“For you Harley, told you we’d win - even it _is_ by default,” something was shoved on her head. Hard plastic dripping warm liquid into her eyes.

The blood soaked crown.

Jerome was wearing one too, the gold framing his deranged face as he grinned at her like he was waiting for her to say _thank you._

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the closest guard announced clumsily, gun swinging wildly at the crowd, “your King and Queen.”

The applause was laced with sobs, Harley could taste her heart in her throat, unable to look away as he pulled her close again. Clumsy hands grabbing at her as he dipped her low again in front of the room, unbearably triumphant.

He kissed her and her brain short circuited.

It _burnt,_ a sloppy smack of lips that tasted of copper as his scar-twisted mouth bruised hers, wet and scalding and _theatrical_. Dazedly she scrambled for her opportunity, forcing herself to stay limp in his grip even as she turned the proximity to her advantage, fumbling for the knife stashed in his belt. The hilt was warm in her hand. He pulled back, face smeared with her lipstick as he smirked at her, not realizing what she’d done yet.

That one way or another it was over now.

She grinned, a real, perfect smile that had him looking back in shock.

Then she stabbed him.  
  



	3. Dead Girl Walking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jerome starts a new story.  
> Harleen would very much like to be excluded from the narrative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Have yet another chapter, in which it becomes apparent that this was originally meant to be a one shot as I try and cram faaaarrrr too much shit into this! ^^; Oh well, I figure at this point this fic is gonna be an unbeta'd mess for a while - just me, you, and a whole box-of-frogs ride of crazy!
> 
> Huge burning thank you to everyone who commented last chapter, it's already made me bump this from six to seven chapters!  
> Jerome may find murder and mayhem inspirational, but for me it's all about the comments :-P (Which hey, means less jail time and awkward evenings trying to scrub blood out of the furnishings! Bonus, right?)
> 
> Also! If anyone wants to connect on tumblr my messy blog can be found at Anonymousmink.tumblr.com - there's sometimes extra art and stuff on there - idk - hit me up! <333

  


Wowzer, what a firecracker!

He’d meant it for show, a shocker for the masses, but damn if that didn’t make him feel just a little bit… _tingly._ Itchy beneath his skin in a good way even as he registered a sharp blade going through his side. She wasn’t a great shot all things considered, he could feel the knife glancing off a rib, not deep enough for real harm. And still he had the taste of her lipstick sticking to his teeth as he waved back his henchies.

“No no, don’t shoot the lady,” he chuckled, gasping just a little as he shoved his hand against the wound to stop the blood flow, “that was _ungentlemanly_ of me. Sorry about that Harls.”

Her smile, real and bursting flickered, falling in slow motion as he straightened himself up.

“Still,” he sighed, examining sticky red fingers, “you _did_ ruin my new suit.”

Whipping the gun from the closest goon he clocked her with it, gesturing for Jimmy or Bucko or whoever was behind the mask to grab her before she could crumple to the floor. He spared a second to check she was still breathing, the pulse fluttering in her pale neck as red blossomed like a flower against her temple. What was it about her that… nah, didn’t matter. He had plenty of time for that shit later. Waggling a hand at the brute behind him to carry her, he whistled up his crew.

“Alright guys,” he shrugged, “have at it.”

The screaming started in earnest then, a beautiful symphony as he let his lunatics loose on the crowd. Might as well make a little scene after all, give the reporters something to earn their living from. He hummed along with the pandemonium as he headed for the door, there was no point waiting for the GCPD, he had business to attend to.

It was time for the _real_ fun.

 

\---

 

Harleen wasn’t sure what had happened but she was pretty sure a truck had been involved. A truck and her _head._ Everything ached, a throbbing that started at the roots of her hair and went all the way through her, pulsing especially harshly in her right temple and left arm.

_What had she done now?_

For a moment all was blissful ignorance, her thoughts tangling around the idea that she’d drunk too much maybe. Or… did the car crash?

Not the car, the _limo_.

The truth came creeping in. An icy coldness that rose up through the paper thin mattress she’d been dumped on, her prom dress still crumpled up around her, the tulle crispy with blood.

She shot up with a whimper, almost losing whatever was left in her stomach as stars burst behind her eyes. For a moment she swayed, blinded and hurting, head hammering so hard she thought she might faint. It took her every scrap of will power to open her eyes and squint through the swelling to try and make out her surroundings. To remember the rest.

Jerome. The prom.

She’d stabbed him, hadn’t she?

“Ballsy fucking move Quinzel,” She mumbled to herself weakly, “real winner.”

Her voice echoed off the empty walls, the chipped magnolia paint covered in sharpied smiley faces and ripped up posters, the window barred, a two by four cell that might have once been an office if the broken furniture and stained linoleum was anything to go by. There were two doors, one tightly shut, the other opened into a dingy little washroom.

She was alone at least, and unharmed apart from the killer headache, scratched up knees and the great big scar he’d slashed into her arm.

_The J._

Oh yeah she was definitely going to be sick.

Hurling herself forward she just about made it to the toilet, resting her burning forehead on the cold porcelain and shivering as she lost the contents of her stomach. Energy drinks and bile mostly.

 _Pull yourself together Harleen,_ she thought at the exact moment some dark part of her mind echoed, _pull yourself together Harrrrley girl._

She threw up again. Even her mind was turning against her.

It was the stress,

But… but… she could _take_ stress.

It wasn’t easy to keep flawless grades, a flyer position on the squad, and arrange a meticulously organised social calendar to keep herself at the top of the pecking order after all.

If she could manage all that then _surely_ this would be…

This would be...

A fucking nightmare.

She couldn’t pretend, not even to herself. Not with a scrawled smiley face staring back at her from the broken toilet lid and what looked like _bullet_ holes in the wall.

So she stayed there, huddled up on herself until the worst of the shaking subsided. Her panicked gasps easing into a gentle wheeze as she rocked herself back to sanity.

She had two options. Either there would be an escape route they’d somehow overlooked in her ugly little cell, or she’d have to open that second door and meet her fate.

Woman up and die with some dignity.

Sucking in a deep breath she forced herself to stand, washing her face in the cracked sink. Her reflection met her in multiples when she looked up, shattered across a dozen shards of mirror. She didn’t look like herself. Too pale, too smudged and bruised and _angry._

She didn’t realise it until she saw herself, didn’t understand how beneath the bone crushing fear she was fucking _furious._ How dare he? How dare he do this to her?

First her school, then her prom, then _her?_

What gave him the right to wreck everything when she was so so close to escaping to college for good and getting her life on track.

She spent ten minutes trying to calm herself, to put the pieces back together as she searched desperately for another way out. It was useless, there was only one door, only one ending.

It was _time._

She was almost relieved when the door opened at her touch.

She wasn’t going to wait around for Jerome to inflict another nightmare on her. Not after Kevin and Danny and rest. No, she was gonna go out like a champ.

She only hoped it would be quick.

The hallway outside was empty, the sound of a TV blaring in the distance. She crept towards it, she might have talked a good game in the privacy of her own head but out here… this was fears domain. Cold terror wound tighter and tighter around her chest, a boa constrictor cutting off her air supply as she reached a short concrete staircase leading down into a wide open space. There was a kitchenette on one side, a battered selection of sofas gathered around a TV on the other. Couple of doors on either side.

She didn’t have much time to take in the rest.

“There she is!” Jerome was lying on the couch. Grinning. Always grinning. his mismatched sock covered feet kicked up in front of him, “how ya feeling sleeping beauty?”

“Where am I?” She asked, surprising herself with how calm she sounded. _Atta Girl, Quinzel._

“Not a morning person huh? Well a-” he made a show of checking his empty wrist for the time, “Jimmy?”

“Eight PM boss.”

“Eight PM? Damn you can sleep Harls, still, you’re awake now and that’s what matters.”

He jumped up, stalking towards her as she stood frozen at the bottom of the steps. He was wearing a pair of comedy heart-print boxers and a white vest, the faint outline of a bandage on his right side peeking through the fabric. A square patch right over his ribs.

“Admiring your handiwork?” He asked, prodding at the faint red stain like it was nothing, “it was a fatal wound, honestly. _Emotionally_ speaking at least.”

“I should have aimed higher.” She bit out, leaning into her suicidal anger full tilt now she’d made the decision to die.

“Yeah you really gotta go between the second and third ribs to get ‘em in the good stuff, here, why don’t you try again.”

She blinked, a whiplash of vicious feeling racking through her as she met his gaze. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

“Not on me,” he laughed, slapping her on the shoulder and making her flinch, “Bucko, wheel in our guest would you. We’ve been ready for _hours_ Harls, ya gotta try and wake up earlier.”

She blanched as the door opposite creaked open and a big hulking man with a crooked nose pushed someone into the room. A stranger maybe, it was impossible to tell under the heavy canvas sack thrown over their head.

Please God, let it be a stranger.

Not another friend. A classmate, a teacher, that old guy who cleaned the classrooms and kept a picture of his children framed on his cart. She pictured her father, his face appearing over the clumsy smiley face they’d drawn on top of the sack.

For the first time in her life she was grateful he was still in jail.

“Look see, I got you a present and everything,” Jerome beamed, pushing her forward when her legs threatened to fail her, “just to prove that all is forgiven and forgotten.”

“No.” her voice was stronger than she dared hope, heart throbbing in time to the pulsing in her skull as she eyed up the stranger, “I won’t do it.”

She killed for him once already. Never again.

“Sure you will,” he rolled his eyes at her like she was an idiot child, “You just take the knife, here see, and you start cutting. And if you don’t…”

“Go on,” she said, “just get it over with.”

This was it.

No more games.

Just her and him and _death._

She squeezed her eyes shut, hands clenched into fists as she prepared to meet her maker.

“I forfeit.”

“Harley, how _could_ you,” her eyes burst open as he pushed her again, slinging an arm around her shoulders and forcing her forward. Bare skin on bare skin. Still too hot. Too feverish. Her mouth burnt as the sharp memory of his kiss shuddered through her all at once. How could she have forgotten that?

Jerome didn’t seem to notice, to _care,_ already raising his other hand to the crooked-nosed henchman and waving for him to open the door, “I could never hurt you, you know that.  But them… them I can hurt.”

Melinda. James. Steve.

Red eyed and shaking, too scared to even scream anymore. Pleading with her silently for salvation as her stomach cramped up, horror rushing like blood in her veins.

“And trust me baby cakes,” his breath hushed against her neck as he squeezed her aching shoulder, “I can _really_ make them hurt.”

She was glad she’d thrown up then, glad there was nothing left inside of her to lose as she held out her hand.

“Give me the knife.”

If it had been just her… if it had been anyone else… she would have let herself die rather than take another life.

At least that’s what she told herself as she approached the body, as she prepared to play the game again. Another round of poker with lives on the line and nothing but a handful of jokers for her to bluff with.  


\---

 

“Noooo,” Jerome corrected her for the third time, sighing to himself wearily as she marked the wrong spot, “higher, didn’t I say higher? Here-” He grabbed a marker, drawing a big red cross over the guy’s chest, “otherwise you’re just gonna make a mess and Bucko here’s gonna have to clean it up.”

Harley nodded, swallowing hard and placing the tip of her knife where he’d marked. She hadn’t tried to stab _him_ again at least, his ribs were glad for it. Although he had to admit the occasional pang of pain when he moved wasn’t altogether unpleasant. It reminded him of the zesty little tingle he’d felt kissing her in front of all those people.

It was… peculiar. Not something he had much experience in, not personally at least. His home life hadn’t exactly been _conducive_ for teenage hook ups even if he’d had the burning inclination. Sure, he was a _man,_ he had _needs,_ but the’d always been so easily pushed aside, distractions from a greater cause. Mayhem was far more satisfying than any girly mag could be.

Still, the ever curious side of him had wondered what the dealio was. He’d kissed one of his hench people, Laney he thought her name was, while Harley was unconscious, just to see how it felt. It hadn’t been the same. A dull, wet smack that left him as cold inside as ever, a joke without a punchline. Useless. He’d patted her on the head and sent her away with a sighed, _it’s not me kid, it’s you._

What was it about Harley that had made the difference?

Who knew. Life’s mystery.

One he’d never solve if she didn’t hurry the fuck up and get on with it, her knife still poised shakily on that handy red X. What was her damage? She’d dropped Bozo like a pro when he’d asked her, was it just henchmen she could take? Was she a one weapon kind of girl?

Nah she’d tried to stab him after all so the tool wasn’t the issue.

The motivation maybe?

He was about to prompt her then, to cut a slice out of one of her friends to get her moving again, when the door opened. A sharp chorus of barks shattering the moment.

“Do you mind?” He growled, looking over at the intruder with murder front and foremost in his mind, “I am _trying_ to teach a class here.”

“Sorry boss-” the goon, Jimmy maybe, blushed, pulling hard on the chain as the Dobermans they’d somehow gotten hold of yanked against it. They'd seemed like a good idea at the time. “B- Bad dogs! Down!”

Jerome paused at Harley’s sudden reaction, the way she froze up, eyes growing so big he thought they might pop out of her pretty little head. Scared of dogs maybe? He shrugged, why not find out?

“On second thoughts,” he turned slyly, trying to keep one eye on Harley’s expression even as the dogs howled and barked, big ugly things they were, eyeing her up like a prime steak, “let ‘em off the leash there Jimmy, they’re probably dying to stretch their legs - uh, _paws._ Get some water or something for ‘em, I dunno. Whatever dogs eat.”

“Are you sure?” Jimmy asked stupidly, blinking down at snarling beasts.

“Did I sound _unsure?_ ”

“No - no, of course,” one dangerous word was all it took and Jimmy was trying to unlatch the collars, wailing as they lunged for his hands. The one on the left taking a chunk out of his ham-sized palm. Jimmy yanked on the chains, setting them howling in pain and Harley gasped, face paler than he’d ever see it. Jimmy sent a vicious kick at the one of the right and she was gone, the knife clattering to the floor in her wake.

“St-stop it,” she almost shouted, glaring up at his big scary hench man without seeming to notice, “you’re _hurting_ them.”

Not scared of dogs then, unless she was _trying_ to get herself eaten. She had woken up a little bit suicidal after all.

 _Patience,_ he schooled himself, reaching out to snag Bucko’s gun, _see how it plays out. You can always shoot them if they go for her face._ Hell, maybe some more scars would improve her, mess up that nasty tendency for perfection she had.

“But-” Jimmy stammered, looking just a little bit afraid of the teenaged girl standing in front of him in her ruined prom dress, his dull grey eyes flickered back to him, “ _Boss?”_

“Harley, Harley, Harleeeey,” he wondered if he’d ever get bored saying her name, it was such a _fun_ one. Rough syllables and rolling e’s. He was sure he’d find out eventually but for now it tickled him as he stepped into the fray, “we gotta keep the beasties in line, if we can’t...” he pointed the gun at the foaming creatures with a mock shooting sound.

God damn she was _scared_ , more frightened than she’d been when he was threatening her, threatening her _friends._

What was it about women and animals?

“Please,” she pleaded, looking up at him with those big ol’ baby blues, “don’t.”

Ooooh well that was a reaction. One he could use probably. Double bonus points to him. He pretended to consider it, putting on as serious of a face as he was capable of as he scratched his chin with the barrell of the gun.

“Hmm well…” she was gonna start crying, no no no too far, he hated the water works, “I’ll tell ya what, you come here and finish the job and not only will I _not_ violently torture your friends to death just yet, but I will also _not_ put down these puppies. Hell, I’ll make em your problem, feed em kill em whatever you want. Deal?”

She didn’t hesitate this time, her mouth set in a grim line as she nodded, bending carefully to pick her knife up.

“Deal.”

He was fascinated by the leap of her veins in her neck, bouncing up and down like a rabbit even as she moved in slow motion towards her mark. Talk about a contradiction. She placed the blade ever so carefully right in the centre of the spot marked x, making sure the tip was firmly planted before she squeezed her eyes shut. That was a shame, he would have liked to have seen the change in them, the _feeling._ But anyway, it didn’t matter, cos she was pressing down down down in a sharp, steady motion and then the blood was really running. Gushing. Spilling over those pretty little fingers as she pulled back shaking.

Her body count was really rising.

“There.” she said, bluebell eyes opening. Fluttering once before she turned away like an automaton. “Done.”

He thought about going back on his word, just for the _reaction._ She was better when she was reacting, her face pulling and scrunching into an _expression_ not this doll-still nothingness. But there was time, lots of time, it was only day two of the _big plan_ after all.

She’d come to enjoy it soon enough.

“They’re all yours,” he bowed, gesturing to the dogs with a flourish.

They were still snapping. Still snarling. He itched his thigh with his gun, endlessly fascinated. How in the hell did she think she was going to control _them_? They were fighting dogs, mob owned most likely,  all scarred up and bald and bitten. Foaming at the mouth in rage as Jimmy stood there like a dolt as far as the chain would let him be from them.

“Put the chain there,” she said softly, gesturing to a hook on the wall. Jimmy compiled without a word. Good lad. Let the lady have her head.

Her hands were shaking as she approached them, still barking and whining and making such a fuss. One of them got hold of a chunk of her skirt, ripped it right off in his big fat jaws. She didn’t seem to notice, staring blankly at them for so long he thought he’d have to remind her of his presence. To _do_ something.

“ _Fooss.”_

The dogs stared at her and snarled again.

She sighed but didn’t move, barking out suddenly “ _Oh-piay. Kno-zey.”_

That last one did it, they stopped snarling all at once, whimpering as she folded her arms.

“ _Saidnee. Zustan.”_

Well blow him down with a feather, the ugly fuckers actually _sat._ Tails wagging like puppy dogs as her face broke out into a warm smile, positively beaming as she crouched down in front of them and introduced herself.

“Uhm excuse me here Harls,” it was _insane,_ and that was coming from him! “What the hell did you just do to our attack dogs? You’re not secretly another _Indian Hill_ escapee are you cos honestly I have quite enough freaks to contend with in this circus.”

She was smiling, _still_ , small but real, rubbing the big one’s notched ears before gently unclipping the chain. “There there sweetie, it’s alright now,” she cooed before lifting her voice slightly, “I worked at a shelter the last coupla summers, we got a lot of ex-mob dogs in. You just have to speak the right language.”

“Which is?”

“Czech in this case,” She shrugged as the brute on her left licked her hand, tail thumping loud enough to set the room shaking. “ _Hout nee, hout nee.”_

Her voice changed when she spoke to them, the wisp of the accent she’d hidden so well colouring her words. A sweetly whining sound like she was off a black and white TV show. I Love Lucy in living colour.

“Fascinating,” he scrunched up his face in thought, the buzzing at the back of his head was getting louder. Telling him that time was up and enough was enough, it was time to think about other things. “Alright then Harley Girl, back to bed with you. Busy day tomorrow and all.”

God she looked _disappointed,_ the dogs whining pitifully as she straightened up. That bright smile flickering and fading out as she rubbed at her arms.

“Take the mutts with you, hurry now before I change my mind!”

“Really?” it was all worth it for that smile, all pearly whites and bruised lips, “Thanks Jer- _Mister J._ Doggos, _Kem yeh._ ”

She trailed off with her nightmare puppies and he was left blinking in her wake as something played played topsy turvy between his ribs. Flipping like a show seal with a ball on its nose.

Damnit, he wasn’t going soft was he? Couldn’t have that? What if-

“Uh - boss?”

Jerome groaned, whipping around with a pointed look, “InterruptingHenchmanSaysWhatandDies?”

“Wha-”

**BANG.**

Phew. That was better. Jeez Bucko, let a man think wouldcha. He stepped over the body and whistled as he headed out. He needed to clear his head, get some perspective. And there was nothing more soothing than a bit of homicide, other people said fishing but hey, what did they know?

  
  



	4. Freeze Your Brain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is it about women and dogs?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if anyone's still reading this but hey I'm still writing it so let's get on with it shall we? :-P  
> This is a shorter chapter but hopefully still legible, I hope if there is anyone out there (*out there-out the-out th-*) that you enjoy it anyway! :D
> 
> And as always, a comment a day keeps the Asylum Doctors away! ;-)

 

The dogs should have come with teeny tiny halos.

Little feathery wings busting out of their scarred backs, they were more welcome to Harleen than angels anyway. They were the only thing that kept her cracking in two then and there.

Her hands had been trembling too hard, stomach squeezing as she held onto the knife, as she tried to do what was necessary to protect her friends. Probably the only friends she had left now, she thought dimly, Jerome had seen to that.

And still it almost hadn’t been enough.

But then there was the sound of barking and it was summer time again, the lazy heat drifting through the kennels as she dragged a heavy feed bag around. Caring for animals someone else had been lucky enough to have and foolish enough to let go of.

Part of her had told herself she was doing it for her transcripts, a full resume and a coupla extra dollars every week for her college fund. But it wasn’t just that, it never had been.

They _needed_ her.

Needed her like no one else in her life ever had.

How many of them came in hurt? Abused? Terrified and mistrusting, branded as monsters when they lashed out because of the hell they’d lived through.

It was more than she could bear sometimes. Enough to send rage burning through her insides, a viscous red and _ugly_ emotion that made her hit out at the walls when no one was around.

That made her drive a knife in when she thought she couldn’t.

But then a cold nose would bump her palm and she was okay again.

She was better, because they deserved better.

So she’d killed the stranger and totted off back to ‘ _her_ ’ room with a pounding headache and two dobermans in tow.

The dogs gave her something else to think about at least, something physical she could touch and comfort and care for. Something to distract her from the endless waking nightmare she’d found herself in.

They didn’t have names so she made up her own, there was a torn up old movie poster on her wall. _Abbott and Costello._ She frowned at it, too fancy. Too _obvious._ Bud and Lou however… that would work.

The one with the half-missing ear would Bud, the one with the half-missing tail would be Lou. They were puppies really, barely a year old if she had to guess, but they were scarred and scraped beyond their years.

She thought maybe they knew how she felt.

She talked to them off handedly as she searched her room. Looking for a weapon, a cell phone, a hidden escape route she’d somehow missed before. It was bare of everything except debris. The medicine cabinet above the sink was a mess too, filled with half-empty bottles of hair dye, deodorants, tampons, tooth brushes - used and not, a whole shelf of brightly coloured grease paints and at least a half dozen prescription bottles ranging from Viagra to Xanax.

She popped one of that last one’s before lying back down to sleep in her stolen room, wondering how many maniacs had laid there before her.

When she woke up it was to find a stranger knocking at her door, another lunatic, this one had a pinched face and a smudged red smile painted over her face. If she made it into the lifetime movie she’d be played by a dangerously underweight Rooney Mara type with a buzz cut.

“Clothes,” was all the stranger said, thrusting a bundle at her. “Ten minutes.”

She wondered if it had been her room before then shrugged. It didn’t matter. She shook out the clothes instead, black leggings a size too small, a red t-shirt three sizes too big. She cleaned up as best she could in the broken sink, scrubbing her face free from make-up and wincing as she went over the bruise, the left side of her face still mottled purple and yellow and _sore._

It was better than she looked before at least, she was less likely to be confused with one of his escapees.

Jerome was waiting.

“Breakfast, Harls?”

He beamed at her, a perfect parody of normalcy sitting as he was at the table with a bowl of cereal and a newspaper in front of him. A stray lock of red hair falling in his eyes as he scrawled distractedly over the article he was reading. If it hadn't been for place... the scars...

She shuddered.

At least he was dressed today.

“Toast?” she replied through gritted teeth, “and something for the dogs?”

He gestured to the cabinets where one of the henchmen, the one who had hurt the dogs yesterday, _Jimmy_ she thought he’d called him, was waiting. Stumbling to get her order into hand and shying away from the pups when he dropped their bowls down.

Good. She knew the attack word.

So tempted to use it she found herself biting down on her tongue to keep it from spilling out.

It was all she had, her one time weapon.

But it wouldn't work. Bud and Lou would be shot down before she could finish the job and that just wasn’t fair to them. They’d suffered enough. So she sat, entering the world of the surreal as she folded herself down next to a serial killer as he drank his tea and dug into a big bowl of fruit loops. Of course they were fruit loops.

She snorted quietly to herself, more like _cereal killer._

“Share the joke, Harls?”

“Oh - it’s nothing,” she blanched, almost choking as she took a huge bite out of the burnt toast dropped in front of her. Stomach twisting at her own inner monologue, maybe madness really _was_ contagious.

She was seeing this through for Melinda and the others. For James and poor dead Danny and the dogs. She was gonna survive for them until they could all be rescued, until she could escape and get help. It in the meantime she would play the game. It was the _smart_ thing to do.

And Harleen was a smart girl.

She’d already told him she had a 4.0 GPA hadn’t she?

Besides, if she was gonna get a movie from the school incident she was surely gonna get a whole goddamn mini-series out of this. She could be played by one of those Fanning girls, or that new blonde actress - Lili something. She’d do.

Scrunching up his newspaper with a crash Jerome leapt to his feet. Her heart rolled over at the sudden movement, flinching as he knocked the plate away from her and grabbed her arm. Bruises forming on top of bruises as he dragged her from from the table.

“That’s enough of that Harley Girl,” he decided suddenly, “I told you it was a busy day didn’t I? Today we’re _branching_ out. New horizons, no time to waste.”

She let herself be pulled along, swallowing down the last of her toast even as her stomach rebelled. She willed it down, there was no point surviving this chaos only to die of starvation. What a waste. She'd have to adapt to chaos.

This time she was pulled into a room she hadn’t noticed before, echoing and empty as the door was slammed shut on Bud and Lou.

She was alone with him again.

And two large henchmen.

And another man tied to another chair.

_Classic._

“Harley meet Francesco, Francesco this is my girl Friday, I mean Harley.” Jerome was grinning, when _wasn’t_ he, pushing her towards one of the empty chairs next to the man. _Francesco._ He didn’t have a bag over his head this time, instead he was gagged, spittle running down his chin as he tried to plead through the fabric.

“No no Francie, don’t say that,” Jerome was saying, slapping him about the face carelessly, “I told you I’d get you to talk, I didn’t say _when._ Gotta show Harley here the _ropes_ ya see, a little bit of torture 101.”

_Torture._

She felt her insides twisting up, turning into snakes inside of her as she eyed up the sweat-stained man. It felt worse somehow than before, worse than just straight out killing a man. At least then it had been _quick,_ over and done with in a blink so she could start repressing it all the faster.

This… this was different.

Jerome was next to her again, crowding her space and blocking out the panic in her head as he handed her that trusty knife of his. She thought she should be used to the weight of it by now but she wasn’t. It still felt wrong to her.

She took it anyway.

 _If I don’t do it to him, Jerome will do it to Melinda and the others._ She reminded herself as he leant in close close close and gestured where to cut. _If I try and kill him again and fail we’ll all die screaming._

“Now this is a bit more of a _free form_ art than just stabbing a guy, Harley girl. Start with the arm here if you will, the nice meaty bits first, and vary up your cut depths and timing, really let your _creativity_ flow. We'll give it ten minutes and then me and Francie will have another lil chat, girl talk, you know how it goes.”

His breath was warm on his neck as he gave her another clumsy pat on her shoulder, gesturing her to start her  _work._

She could feel the weight of his eyes, white hot and burning as she lifted her knife, the first cut coming out sluggish and shallow as her brain _screamed_ at her. An endless pounding horror that made her breath short as she told herself it was the only thing she could do.

Jerome would do it anyway wouldn’t he? It wasn’t like she was _stopping_ anything that wasn’t already going to happen. It was just in different hands. _Her_ hands.

It was a necessary evil.

“So,” he asked, close as ever, as she fumbled with the blade, wincing as blood beaded up through the stranger’s coarse black hair,  “What is it with you and dogs?”

She blinked at that, her mind seizing onto the question like a lifeline. Needing the distraction before it broke entirely. Maybe it was intentional, maybe he meant to distract her so she’d get on with it.

She didn’t care, it helped.

Biting down on her lip she forced herself into the memory, forced herself to speak as she made another cut. Slow and shallow.

“I always wanted a dog when I was kid,” she murmured. The man groaned but she didn’t listen, didn't let herself be there at all, “I begged my parents for years but mom wouldn’t have it. Then one year daddy got out of the joint early, just in time for my birthday, he showed up outta the blue with a puppy just for me.”

It was her happiest memory wasn’t it? The way the dog had yapped and waggled as she’d clutched it tight, tears streaming down her face as she felt so happy she could burst from it. She clung to the memory, blocking out everything else as the knife moved on autopilot. Soft soft fur, cold wet nose,  _joy._

“It was a precious little thing,” she made herself continue, breathing shallowly as she smelt the harsh tang of copper. It’s just dog food she told herself, that’s all. “With big blue eyes and the softest brown fur. I could see mom didn’t approve but it was too late, he was mine. I called him Fluffy,” Jerome snorted and she scowled at him, “I was six.”

“Sorry sorry, go on.”

The cuts were getting deeper, the whimpers becoming guttural shrieks as she dug in again and again as she picked up her story. As the happiness tilted behind her eyes and a cold, familiar darkness seeped in.

“I got to keep him, _love_ him for a whole month until one day I woke up and Fluffy was gone. I cried for weeks but it was no good, mom said he’d run away and that was that.”

She always forgot that part. The shrieks were becoming whimpers, strangled through the gag as the cuts became stabs.

“It wasn’t until I was older that I found out what had really happened. What she’d done. How he’d _fallen_ into the pond when she’d let him out. How he’d _drowned_ . How she’d... _”_

A shudder skittered up her hand, jarring her wrist as the blade struck bone. She blinked, pulling back at last, her hands were bright red and dripping with what she’d done. The man’s arm unrecognisable, split open in front of her like so much meat.

Dog food.

For a moment she couldn’t make sense of it, any of it, but then Jerome was there. He reached out, taking the knife almost gently from her before covering her hands with his. She didn’t shy away this time, welcoming the feverish heat of him. It kept her tethered. Kept her from crying.

“Your mom sounds like a bitch.” He said sincerely.

Harley laughed, a weak hiccupy sound that was almost a sob.

“Yeah,” she agreed, “a total bitch.”

 

—-

 

Ahhh parental issues. The hallmark of any true psycho in the making, and darn if she wasn’t going toe to toe with him for tragic backstory. Whore circus freak mother and absentee blind father vs ice cold dog killing suburban mom and absentee crook father.

A contest for the ages.

He was still winning though, he’d _killed_ his parents after all. Wiped away the past and started over with a clean slate.

Maybe that’s what she needed too.

Maybe he should find her parents, bring ‘em in and let her carve out her grievances herself. Get some closure.

Maybe not. It was a little soon after all, and it would draw attention he wasn’t quite ready for yet.

Better to keep feeding her the low level mobster types he tripped over every time he stepped out the door. Middle management evil who tried to interfere with _his_ business. It wasn’t like he even _cared_ about their organised crime, pfft how dull!

He was here for the _disorganised_ crime.

That was where the fun was.

He had a feeling he could have a lot of fun with Harley Girl when she finally got with the program. She was making such darling little steps already, even if she still shook whenever he handed her a knife. She'd get over that, but damn if she hadn't been a sight when she'd really gotten going, twisting the blade down to the  _bone._  He thought he was gonna have to stop her at one point as she told her tragic little tale, certain she was gonna cut something Francie was gonna need and off the poor fucker before they had a chance to  _chat._

He'd let her have a break after that, sending her away with a pat on the head. Something unfamiliar tingled in the very pit of his stomach as he watched her go. At first he thought it was the fruit loops but then he reconsidered, it felt ever so slightly like an itty bitty bit of  _pride._

His monster was already taking shape, and she would be a beaut!

And Francesco was still very much alive, which was great! He'd already told Jerome everything he needed to know, and a whole heap of shit he didn't, but Harley didn't know that. There was still plenty of flesh left for her to practice on. Whistling up a henchman as he shoved the gag back in, Jerome ordered them to bring Harley back in. He wondered what other dark secrets he could get out of her when he started teaching her how to take off fingers.

Time to find out.

Ding ding, round two!


	5. The Me Inside of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley steps up to the plate.  
> Jerome adds to his art project.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there reader! Thanks for making it this far, we're over half way now and fingers crossed we'll get this madness finished before S4 picks back up (raise your hand if you're excited cos I KNOW I AM! :-P) As always comments are worth their weight in gold and thank you so much for reading! Until next time, kissyface!

It got easier after that.

Too easy maybe.

She let the days blend into each other in a jumble of bad tv reruns and blood sport as she learnt to separate herself from it, made it so it couldn’t touch _her_ not really.

Not _Harleen._

Harleen was normalcy. She was driven and determined and completely in control of her life. Harleen had goals, she had a _plan._ She was going to graduate medical school early, get an internship at a big name mental health facility and make her fortune understanding the ununderstandable and writing best selling books all about it.

This was a detour. A future anecdote to help her get a leg up on the competition.

A wound that might never heal, bleeding a steady stream of shameful memories of what she’d done…

No. What _Harley_ had done.

Harley girl. Harls. Blondie. Doll face. Kiddo. The names drawled and mocked and mangled and laughed at her until she let herself forget that she’d ever had any other.

Harley let things happen. She went with the flow.

Harley _survived._

And Harley was getting good at it too.

The real test had come early, when she’d been dragged into the torture room to find two bodies waiting for her instead of one, a particularly gleeful look in Jerome’s eyes as he presented her _lesson._

“Harls this is Roger, Roger has a thing for getting in the way of other men’s business deals and uh - has a nasty little interest in children even _I_ don’t find funny, and this is other guy is… is…” Jerome snapped his fingers, foot jumping as he made a show of remembering the name, “help me out here pal.”

The gag was yanked down just long enough for the other guy to sob, “B-b-Bob - please don’t hurt me, my kids are waiting for-”

“That’s enough of that-“ the gag went back in and her stomach sank like a dead sailor at sea. Tossed over board like so much chum. “This is Bob, who as you may have guessed is an innocent bystander who got in the way when we were picking Roger up for you. Them’s the breaks.”

Oh God.

“Both of them are gonna die of course but the fun part is _how,”_ the scarred edges of his mouth twisted up higher than usual, a sure sign she wasn’t going to like what was coming next, “And how is up to you doll face! It’s Harley’s choice! One of them gets a quick death the other gets bloody torture. Easy right? Just point and shoot.”

Just like that there was another gun in her hand, a single bullet in the chamber.

“Who will it be, Harls?” Jerome’s hand trailed a path up her spine absentmindedly, shivers chasing after it as he nudged her forward. His eyes dark and mocking as if he was waiting to be disappointed. “Shoot the bad guy and keep those morals squeaky clean, or shoot the good guy and spare him from a fate worse than… well _me.”_

There was no way Harleen would have even contemplated it, taking an innocent life… no. Mobsters, henchmen, nameless faceless people behind masks she could pretend deserved it, sure. But some innocent stranger?

_My kids are waiting for me._

That’s what he was gonna say, he was just someone’s _dad_. Fat and middle aged with sad brown eyes and sweat patches drenching his white shirt.

His tie had little cartoon characters on it.

She’d bought her own father one just like it once, for Father’s Day.

Harleen couldn’t do it.

But Harley… well, she knew they were both gonna die anyway. That they were _all_ gonna die if she didn’t play Mister J’s game.

She forced her chin up, _Harley_ could do this.

So Harley did.

She thought it would feel different as the gun went off, like the enormity of it might strike her down like lightning as the echoing in her ears faded. The weight of it would crush her chest, split her down the centre and leave her sobbing on the floor.

It didn’t.

Death was death. She was the weapon not a killer.

_Harley’s don’t kill people rappers do._

Afterwards Jerome had given her her choice of weapons to take out the other guy. Roger. _Slowly,_ he insisted. Nothing too quick for the kiddy fiddler. She’d picked up a hammer without looking and let loose every scrap of humiliated, horrified rage she had bottled up inside of her. Every white hot scrap of despair that she didn’t feel any worse than she had before, all of her hate, at herself, at Jerome, at the whole fucking world until she was unrecognizable from it and Roger was dead three times over.

She could still hear his bones crackling like Rice Krispies even now if she tried.

So she didn’t try, she let it go. Pushed it down and _moved on._ That’s what Harley was good at. She even smiled as she handed back the hammer, letting the empty places inside of her fill up with white noise as she retreated to her room.

If she wanted freedom, and she _wanted_ freedom, she’d just have to bide her time and wait.

It was then she’d stopped looking for an escape. There wasn’t one. The doors were always locked or there’d be a henchman or three with guns on the other side. They’d look at each other, nod, and back inside she’d go.

So she stayed where she was allowed, did as she was told, and kept on waiting. Kept on _believing_ that it had to end. That freedom, like all lost things, would come to her when she stopped looking for it.

Another day. Then another.

That morning… evening when she awoke it was to find the hideout abandoned. No Jerome waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs as she slouched down with her dogs at her heels.

That had scared her too at first, how night and day didn’t seem to matter, leaving her constantly on edge over the unspoken, ever-changing schedule. Sometimes he was there. Sometimes he wasn’t. Late. Early. Not at all.

Now she was almost used to it.

Clicking on the TV she set about fixing herself some breakfast, handing over the dogs begrudgingly when a henchman appeared for them. Someone else had to walk them after all, since she wasn’t allowed out. It was the worst part of her day.

Other than that she didn’t see the hench people often, not when Jerome wasn’t around anyway. Maybe he’d given them orders, told them to let her stew in her own company.

Maybe it was for her own protection.

Still Laney seemed nice enough once you got past the resting bitch face and whacko attitude, Geronimo too, he had a craggy kind of stillness that made her wonder how he ended up with the rest of them. They were all nuts obviously, they had to be to be following Jerome, but they’d never tried to hurt her. The only one she really didn’t like was Jimmy, and that was mostly on the dog’s behalves.

She supposed it didn’t matter, whatever the reason she was alone again anyway, legs folded up underneath her as the news came on and she was confronted with her own face looking back at her. She scowled at the screen, it was _not_ her best look, her senior class photo, the one they hadn’t let her retake so her smile was just a little crooked and the lighting was totally blah. The one yesterday was better, a carefully curated photo of her in her Cheerleading uniform from the yearbook, it was a much better look for her.

“ _Popular high school senior Harleen Quinzel has been missing for two weeks now-“_

Well they’d mentioned she was popular at least. God, had it really only been two weeks?

It felt like a lifetime.

“ _This talented, much loved student was a survivor of the GSH School Massacre and is believed to be being held by notorious Arkham escapee Jerome Valeska although no ransom demands have yet been made. We reached out to her mother, Sharon Quinzel, for comment-“_

Harley changed the channel with a snort. Yeah good luck with that, although knowing Sharon she was probably using this to her every advantage. If her daughter couldn’t be an Olympic Athlete maybe she could be a famous victim, she’d probably got an agent, gussied herself up and was already in talks to sell the book deal.

 _Her_ book deal.

The thought burnt, chewing angrily at her as she forced herself away from the sofa. Looking around the empty room she felt herself sighing harshly, without the constant threat of danger and destruction she felt… well a little bit _bored_ to be honest. She’d never been very good at doing nothing, especially now with no one but her own bitterness for company.

Stretching her arms out over her head she tested the litany of aches and pains that had become her closest friends, finding at last that she had most of her range of movements back. It no longer hurt to breathe at least.

Hauling herself upright she double checked the room was empty before slapping her hands together. She hadn’t practised in weeks, the last thing she needed was to lose her edge when it just might save her life one of these days.

 

—-

 

“I _knew_ it!”

The girl backflipping across the hideout stumbled as he breezed into the room, pulling herself up before she could fall. He snickered, that would have been hi _-lar_ -ious!

“I _knew_ you were a cheerleader!”

What a show! She was flipping and kicking and spinning like a top - she coulda made a fortune, well not a fortune but a living maybe at the circus! Give those ridiculous _Flying Graysons_ a run for their money, up tight spandex wearing walking wedgies that they had been.

Harley was panting ever so slightly, her cheeks cherry red from the exertion of all that bouncing about the place. Still, she bowed at his one-man-applause section, all button cute and embarrassed.

It was a picture.

“I needed an extra curricular on my transcripts,” she rubbed her neck awkwardly, “and Gotham State didn’t have a Gymnast team. Go Tigers.”

They probably didn’t have a cheerleading squad anymore either, now that he thought about it, but hey he wasn’t one to kill the mood. Dumping his plastic bag full of explosives on the dining table he sauntered towards her, the plan was going well. Well enough that he had time to stop and chat for a while. Shoot the breeze.

“Ya got talent kid,” he grinned, “really, you should go _profesh_.”

“I almost did,” another shrug, her smile faltering as she glanced away. There was something there. A memory fragment cutting into her eyes, another puzzle piece of his Harley Girl that needed breaking free, “I nearly made the Olympic team a few years back.”

“So?” He prompted, “why didntcha? Not that I’m complaining, love to have you here and all.”

She held up her wrist. The long pink scar glinted under the fluorescents, his own addition painting a bright red line across the top. His hallmark. A memento mori for her. Think of me and remember, tears, tears, watery smile.

Anyway.

“That was fucking stupid.”

She choked at that - was it… almost a laugh? Why why why Miss Harley what was so funny about that? She shrugged again before he could push it, a strange little smile quirking her lips.

“It got me out of there didn’t it? It was never my dream in the first place, but mom wouldn’t take no for an answer.” A grim grin twisted her face, “so I made the decision for her.”

Mother Harley was definitely on his hit list. But no time to dwell.

“You dirty little liar,” he cried, secretly impressed as he reached out to play with her ponytail. How did she keep her hair so _fluffy_ in this place? Witchcraft? “You told me it wasn’t self inflicted!”

“I s’pose it was kinda a cry for help,” she scoffed in that beautiful nasal whine of hers before she seemed to catch herself, levelling it off into a flat impression of normalcy, “I mean, in a way it was but-“

He stopped listening. She’d been doing so _well._ Clawing her way out of the box they’d stuffed her in, with his help of course. Blossoming like a - like a beautiful stabby _flower_ and she kept ruining it!

“No no NO.” He seized her left hand, yanking it so hard she stumbled as he whipped out his knife, carving the word ‘NO’ into the back of it for emphasis. Full capitals and everything.

“Hey-“ she screamed, trying to wrench herself free from him as he added an exclamation point, “What-“

“Stop censoring yourself,” he held her firmly in place, twisting the knife sharply before pulling it loose, warm blood dripping over his fingers, “stop _hiding_ behind that fake freaking accent _._ Stop being who they want you to be!”

She froze, a statue where she’d once stood. Doll perfect again and unbearable. He shoved his finger into her cuts and watched her face scrunch in pain, _good._ That was _real_.

“Every time you fake it you get a new scar, starting right here, understand?” He dragged his dripping fingers over her mouth and up her cheek, “ _Understand?”_

“Yes Mistah J.” She squeaked, reaching up to touch her bloody half smile. Perfectly imperfect again as her accent leaked back in like a faulty tap.

“Good.” He ruffled her hair, pulling back with a tired grin, his anger forgotten on the flip of a coin, “Ya gotta cut that shit out Harls, they call the other side madness but it’s not… it’s _freedom._ ”

That hit her, he saw it just for a moment. A flicker. A split second of vicious _longing_ that spoke to the deepest, hungriest parts of him as she nodded. It made something in him _burn_.

So he stepped away, dusted off his jacket like nothing had happened and said, “Now, say the word ‘coffee’, wouldcha?”

“What?” she blinked, little lost lamb again, forehead creased in pain.

“‘Coffee’” he prompted, “sayyyy it.”

“Coffee?”

“ _No,_ ” he groaned, flicking the knife at her again in warning, “properly. Like _you_ would.”

She sighed, just a touch of colour returning her bloodless cheeks as she looked away, still cradling her hand.

“ _Kawfee.”_

He lost it, breaking down into fits of manic laughter at the dejected little word all pretty and mangled. Head shaking as tears streamed from the corners of his eyes, what a riot!

“Again again,” he gasped, clutching at his sides, “and ‘New York’ too, say it say it.”

“Fine,” her shoulders slumped, “I went to _New Yoyk_ and ordered a _kawfee.”_

Oh God oh God he was gonna die.

“Ya wanna know where?” She asked, something lighting her eyes, something wounded, hateful and just a little bit… _hopeful._

“Where?” He gasped between cackles.

“ _Stah bucks.”_

He howled, slumping over laughing. The fire roared inside of him, white hot and unbearable as he heard her joining in, a soft little girlish giggle that grew as he laughed and laughed.


	6. Candy Store

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner and Show, only not necessarily that way around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very much a chapter of two halves that has been carelessly slapped together by your friendly neighbourhood author! :-P I hope it's not too jinky!  
> And also my apologies for the late upload - I know I'm a day late but I hope y'all forgive me :D  
> Now, on with the show - I hope to see you in the comments section guys! <333

  


It felt good to laugh again.

God, how sick did that sound?

But it _did._ She spent so much time frightened and off balance and _repressing,_ but something had changed, like someone had thrown a switch inside her that made it _okay_ to laugh. To let it out.

Her new scar flashing up at her every time she felt like hiding again.

_NO!_

She’d always been so focused, so _controlled,_ every aspect of her future planned. Every word and outfit and action orchestrated to best effect.

Be pretty. Be popular. Get good grades. Get into the right school. It was never enough.

Maybe it never would be.

It ate her up sometimes, what she was doing, what she was going through. Late in the night when she couldn’t deal and the laughter wasn’t enough, that’s when she turned to other methods of forgetting.

Xanax. Crying.

Hell she’d even pried a piece of glass loose from the shattered mirror, she should have thought about using it as a weapon, that would have been the logical thing to do. Instead she just used it to carve the word ‘YES’ into her other hand. It was shaky and shallow but it did the trick, it kept her balanced.

Yes and No.

It gave her options.

Especially when she saw the _other_ side of him. Jerome, Mister J, whoever he was when he wasn’t pressing a weapon into her hand and pointing her like a rifle at whoever or whatever he wanted maimed. The guy who bounded in to her space at random like an over excited puppy dog and told her all about his day. Not the details of course, at least nothing she understood, but the generals.  Things had gone well. He’d heard a song she’d just _love._ She wouldn’t believe what Jimmy had done when they met the arms dealer...

It was almost… almost _normal._

Yesterday he’d appeared late at night when she was falling asleep on the couch in front of some old comedy movie. It was stupid of her really, suicidal to let her guard down in a house full of psychos. But she had, eyelids fluttering as he dropped down onto the sofa next to her with a gleeful laugh.

“What’re we watching, Harls?”

She’d snapped awake in a second, struggling to pull her legs out of the way in time but instead he’d just grabbed them, slinging them into his lap like the two of them were old friends. Settling in beside her with absolutely no trace of discomfort. 

“Duck Soup,” she’d replied quietly, off-kilter as he drummed a solo on her calf muscles, but she didn’t need to. His eyes were already fixed on the screen, head tilting back as he laughed and laughed at all the right bits. It made something between her ribs twang, made her want to ask a thousand questions that always got caught in her throat. It made her want to  _know_ him.

Above all else though it frightened her, even more than the other side of him did.

Jerome Valeska, murderer, maniac, and escaped mental patient she understood.

Jerome Valeska, distracted conversationalist and enthusiastic movie buddy... that was a whole other case entirely.

He wasn't laughing now though, an uncharacteristic seriousness written across his face as he led her down into _the room_ again, it had always been grim, too much blood in it for anything else. She’d taken to thinking about it in abstract, as a _set._ Like something out of one of those Scandinavian noir shows people went nuts over for some unknown reason.

But now… now it was real. Hideously HD real, and all her carefully built defences were tearing like soggy newspaper as she recognized the victims waiting for her, her heart stalling completely at the sight.

Melinda. James. Paul.

She couldn’t separate herself from it, not with her new best friend looking back at her, her would-be prom date, her fellow cheerleader. Reality kicking down the doors of her hiding place and leaving her bruised up and bleeding from within as they stared unseeing at her, thin and pale and glassy eyed.

For the first time in a long time Harleen felt completely like her old self again and she couldn’t bear it.

Jerome’s hands were on her shoulders, gentle this time. A broken reflection of comforting as he steered her towards the centre of the room. Her throat squeezed, the invisible noose of guilt tightening as she realised just how much she’d managed to forgot about them over the weeks. It had been so much easier when she could pretend they weren't there.

But they were.

“You’ve been doing such a good job Harls,” Jerome said, voice Halloween candy sweet, hiding the razor blades within as he stroked back her hair, “really, I’m proud of how far you’ve come already but we can’t stop yet. No no, not when we’re getting to the good part, the sink or swim, eat or be eaten part.”

The panic was rising in her chest again, but it was dulled now. Somehow distant from her as Jerome looked deep into her eyes from far too close. She’d always seen madness looking back, behind everything else, concern, anger, humour, all of them came with a backlash of insanity that he couldn’t escape.

For the first time she wondered what _he_ saw when he looked at her.

If he knew something she didn’t, could see some tell tale sign of madness that she couldn’t even admit to herself. If he saw a puppet whose strings he could keep pulling long after they broke.

Like Melinda. Like James and Paul.

Was she like them? Was she like him? Victim? Victor? How long could she keep dancing before she snapped?

“You just gotta pick one Harley, just one. For me okay.”

And there was that sweetness again, that candy coated _understanding_ that undid all of her certainties. Wasn’t that what she’d always _craved_? Someone to understand her?

Her mom couldn’t, she’d pretended too when Harley was willing to play Gymnast Barbie for her but that had always been a lie. Her dad didn’t either, otherwise he’d have found a way to keep himself in their lives for more than five months at a time. Her siblings were too old, already moved out long before she had a chance to know them.

And her friends… her friends had been _useful._ They had fun sure, but it had always been superficially. Work colleges rather than soul mates. Everyone too wrapped up in their own dramas to care about hers.

What kind of monster was she that the only one who’d ever actually offered was… _him?_

“Why?” She asked through the white noise in her skull, lips numb around the word.

“Because this is the only way to make you _understand,”_ There was no showboating now, no dramatic voices and wild flourishes. It was just him and her and room full of memories, “you’re in a prison Harls and I’m just trying to get you out. Society has twisted you, told you what to believe, what to be, who to trust and who to hate. All the rules and regulations they’ve built to enslave you - it’s all _bullshit_ Harls, they made it all up. Once you realise that your whole world is gonna _change_ , and I… I just wanna open the door.”

She wished he had shouted at her instead, had put on another costume and forced her hand. Threatened and cackled and danced with glee. It would have been easier to cope with if she could blame it all squarely on him. The abuse easier to understand than the almost-empathy in his mad, mad eyes as he handed the gun to her.

She wasn’t an idiot, she knew she couldn’t trust Jerome. No one could. He was insane and this... this was all a scheme, a manipulation on a grand scale, he would lie and threaten and cheat to make her do what he wanted. He’d make her choose a friend, he’d make her kill them, and then he’d hold the others against her to make her dance another round even as he pretended to _understand_ her.

She knew all of that.

So why did her chest _ache_ when he spoke to her like that? Why were the tears building behind her eyes tears of frustration instead of despair?

Why, why oh why, did she want to believe him?

**BANG.**

**BANG.**

**BANG.**

“Harley…” There was something almost like _reverence_ in his voice then, genuine shock as he looked at what she’d done.

She handed the gun back without a word.

It was for the best, she told herself as she walked away. They were suffering. They couldn’t be tortured any more now, and none of them could be used against her again. No one could.

The joke was on him this time.

Harley smiled at that.

 

—-  


Jerome was used to things getting stuck in his head. Phrases, colours, screams, the lyrics to that irritating fucking Friday song that always seemed to be playing on the radio when he went out.

But this… this was a new one.

There was something _magical_ about watching Harley girl drop her best buddies like Liam Neeson in a revenge movie. She was shorter of course, _prettier_ by far, but her aim had never wavered. Same still, doll perfect look on her face as she _blam blam blam_ took em out like wooden ducks.

He wasn’t used to people surprising him but wowzer, that was a _moment._ That kid was gonna _go_ places.

Of course it had taken its toll, the first _personal_ one always did. Ya had to adjust to the reality of it, settle yourself into a world without walls. He thought about writing a self help book about it and chuckled.

_How to kill friends and influence people?_

_Murder for Dummies?_

Something snappy like that.

He was still thinking about it two days later as he tore into the boxed noodles one of the less recognisable gang members had picked up. That was the problem with secret hideouts, they were a _nightmare_ to order take out too. Not that he much cared for food, any reminder of his own human nature was unwelcome. Sleeping, eating, they were so predictably pedestrian.

He much preferred being an _idea_. A legend. A nightmare. Something beyond flesh and bones and the boring necessities that came with it.

The boys and girls of his collection of handy lunatics weren’t exactly good dinner company either, they were _followers._ Everything he said was a prophecy to those nut bars, he was to be exalted and adored and yeah it was pretty great but it got fucking dull sometimes too.

Harley wasn’t like that. She wasn’t a fanatic or a follower, she was… well he’d be damned if he knew. An apprentice maybe, an art project, the potential for something far more… someone who might just be able to grasp the big picture.

One day maybe.

“Why’d you kill your mom?”

He choked on a mouthful of food, shooting up to find Harley looking back at him across the table, chopsticks poised in one hand, the other braced against her pointy little chin.

“Helluva choice of dinner conversation there, dumpling,” he scoffed, wiping sauce off his face, “let a guy finish his chow mien before you drop the heavy stuff why don’t you?”

She shrugged, slurping delicately at her own box of genetically modified goodness before adding, “just wonderin’.”

“Well let’s see,” he gave it the thought it deserved, making a show of introspection even as he slapped at her hand when she reached to steal the spring rolls, “I killed her for a lot of reasons, good meaty Shakespearean reasons.”

“Like?”

He frowned at that, she had a thing about past, like any of it _actually_ mattered. But still, something in her bluebell eyes stopped him. Told him that a little _bonding_ might go a long way.

“You ever been bitten by a snake, Harls?”

She shook her head in confusion, “the shelter only had mammals.”

“Well let me tell ya, it’s not a fun time party experience,” something had him putting his chopsticks down, unbuttoning the cuff of his shirt and rolling it up with a flourish. Dozens of dozens of perfectly round little scars blinked back, an impressionists dot-to-dot in waiting. “I tried to be a good son, really I did. Did my damndest to make her happy even after all she did, how she treated me, but it was never enough. And when it wasn’t enough...”

“Oh,” her mouth formed a perfect circle around the sound, like a polo mint, her eyes matchingly round as she met his gaze. Only this time she wasn’t looking at him like he was the wolf who’d eaten her grandma, there was something almost understanding in her gaze. Empathic.

He rather liked the change, he just wasn’t sure about he _felt_ about rather liking the change  

But then she was twisting, pulling up the back of her shirt and revealing a criss-cross of crisp angular scars of her own.

“With my ma it was a hairbrush,” she said, dropping the hem and turning back to him with a pink little stain in her cheeks, “it was this big square hard plastic thing with this one really sharp edge that if she hit just right… yeah. She used to keep in in her handbag during practise, if I wasn’t trying hard enough _wham._ ”

“I think the snakes win,” He said, folding his sleeve down and doling out another spring roll to her in consolation, “much more creative.”

“Can't argue with that.” She gave him a wry half smile of thanks as she accepted the offering.

“Now, what’s with the questions?” he lifted an eyebrow at her, “Got some matricide on your mind?”

“Nah,” she hitched a shoulder, an artless little gesture as she played with her food, “I want Sharon to live a long long life exactly as she is.”

The words themselves were sweet but her tone, God damn that was cold. She said it like a fortune cookie curse. _May you live in interesting times._

“Your call,” he swirled his chopsticks thoughtfully around the box, “I personally enjoy the clean slate that comes with orphandom, the sympathy too.” He winked at her, “really helps pick up the ladies.”

She snorted, “sure thing Mistah J.”

What an enigma that girl was. From crying to laughing to shooting up her friends to asking prying questions over the dinner table. She kept him on his toes alright.

“How old are you?”

 _Another_ question. All out of nowhere just when he was settling back down again.

“Age is just a number.” He replied sagely.

“Yeah,” she nodded, “it is. So?”

“I dunno,” Jeez he really had to think about that one, he’d given up keeping track the same time he’d given up having parents and pretending at sanity, “Twenty maybe? Twenty one?”

She snorted at that.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she was innocence incarnate, “just thinking you could be the poster boy for ‘stay in school kids’.”

He glared at her without much feeling,  “cos you’re _super_ sane Lil’ Miss 4.0” she stuck her tongue out and he was laughing again, “come on then, tell me your grand plans. What are we keeping you from that’s so great?”

“My finals,” a dazed look came into her eyes as she considered it, “I wonder if they’ll let me retake them, or if I’ll get an automatic pass after all this, y’know, trauma.”

“A, uncalled for.” he tossed a prawn cracker at her, snorting when she caught it, “I’m the picture of hospitality. And B, silver lining!”

“Definitely,” she poked about at her rice again, “I’m gonna get into Gotham U no trouble now. Who needs references when you have kidnapping and murder.”

“What you gonna study then smarty pants?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“I often do,” he said, feigning solemnity, “some people have said I’m known for it.”

“Psychology,” she mumbled around a full mouth, not looking at him.

That was too much. He threw back his head, spitting chicken bits as he howled with laughter. _His Harley, a shrink!_ Holy shit it would be the blind leading the blind.

The crazy leading the crazier!

He was still howling when he felt a delicate foot hook around the leg of his chair and _pull,_ sending him rolling to the floor. He lay dazed, mind ticking in the silence, and then she started laughing. Deeper than he expected, not a high-pitch giggle but a proper, fullthroated laugh and he was lost all over again, dragging himself up wheezing as she covered her mouth with her hand.

“Rude, Harls,” he gasped when he got his breath back. Her expression was priceless, still flushed from laughing, eyes sparkling with malice and fear and apprehension, at the shock at what she’d done.

“You started it!” She squeaked and he waved her back, digging into his food again with a smirk. A sign that all was well and she’d escaped retribution. He wouldn’t deny anyone a good joke after all.

And she was growing into a _masterpiece._

So close to being ready for her big coming out party, when the critics would be in and they could all see what she was really made of.

So why was he hesitating?

Why did part of him want to keep her here indefinitely? His own little pet maniac, always there when he turned around with her big dumb dogs and her slowly shifting willingness to kill.

He supposed he’d always been selfish, even as a kid, he never liked other people touching his stuff, playing with his toys. And she… she was rapidly becoming his favourite.  



	7. Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preludes and knock knock jokes  
> (Only technically without the knock knock jokes...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh we're almost at the grand finale! I can't believe it's come around so soon - just one chapter left after this and an epilogue! :'-(  
> I truly hope you like it guys, as always, and I hope to see some of y'all in the comment section! <3

 

The world was upside down and inside out, but wasn’t it always. Harley was disturbingly used to it, humming a cheerful little jingle to herself to cover up the sound of muffled screaming as she worked through another _lesson_.

It was amazing how well she could harmonise with it now.

She wasn’t stupid, she knew the signs. Hints that maybe she’d snapped a little bit harder than she meant too, sank a little bit deeper than she should have, but hey, you couldn’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs.

And she couldn’t make it through to the next day without breaking a few bones.

And she was _going_ to make it through.

Harley was a survivor. She was a whole Beyoncé back catalogue when she needed to be,

It was just Laney watching her today, Jerome out in the main room working on his _plans._ She was used to that too, the way he could space out entirely. Forgetting everything and anything as he poured over whatever it was he was working on at the table. She didn’t ask him what it was, she had a feeling she'd find out pretty soon any way. He was ramping up to something, a fresh spark of madness lighting in his blue-green eyes.

There was no time to worry though. Not when there was so much to do.

She hefted a plank in her hand, eyeing up the nails stuck out of it with a wince before turning it on her victim. Another nameless stranger, thank God. Today was supposed to be all about makeshift weapons, broken pipes, bricks, scissors. That sort of thing. Her mind drifting from the torture as it always did, circling towards a curiosity that had been gnawing at her for weeks.

One that she might actually broach today.

Shooting a careful glance at her silent companion she weighed up the moment, Laney was filing her nails distractedly, mouth twisted in concentration as she worked.

No time like the present.

“Hey Laney,” replacing the plank, Harley made a show of examining the rest of the weapons she edged into a conversation, her victim had stopped screaming at least. That would make talking easier. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot,” The henchwoman replied without looking up, examining her nails with a critical expression on her brightly painted face.

Harley hesitated over her next words, trying to project casual interest and sisterly bonding as she picked up and discarded the pipe, “I was just wonderin’... how long have ya been in this game?”

“About-“ Laney frowned, already thin cheeks drawing in to sharp lines as she thought about it, “seven months I think?”

“Oh cool,” Harley couldn’t stop it, the real question, the real source of her curiosity spilling out awkwardly, “And uhm…  why exactly… did you decide to work for _him_?”

She didn’t have to specify who ‘ _he_ ’ was, it was pretty obvious. Jerome would be the murderous elephant in any room she’d go into for the rest of her life.

Laney snapped up, her full attention fixed squarely on Harley then, making the back of her neck itch. Hard black eyes met hers in the sort of long, intense look that might have been unnerving if Harley hadn’t been regularly stared down by the master of long intense stares.

“You know why.” Laney said at last, voice perfectly still. The eye of the hurricane.

“No but-“

“Harley.” She shook her head, dark eyes burning like coals, “you know _exactly_ why I’m here. Why we’re all here. Why _you_ wanna be here too.”

“I- I-“ the words stalled, caught by the panicked squeeze in Harley's throat. Her breath catching at the absolute conviction in the henchwoman’s eyes.

She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t. She was just playing the game. That was all.

Laney sighed at her silence, hauling her boney frame from her chair and patting Harley on the shoulder gently. Standing she was a good three inches taller than Harley was, but it didn’t intimidate her like it might once have. Not in the way those words had.

“You don’t understand it yet, but you will.” Laney said with quiet confidence, “he can _see_ something in you Harley, I was jealous at first but… he’s right. He can make you _more_ , like he is.”

The shrill buzz of the timer went off, a sharp screech that cut through the pounding of blood in her ears. Harley's lungs three sizes too small for her rib cage as she struggled to shake off the certainty in Laney’s voice.

It was an answer. Just not the one she’d ever wanted.

“Anyway, that’s enough girl talk,” Laney stepped away, holding out her nail file with a shrug, “finish him off and we’re done for the day.”

Harley nodded. The rusted metal went through the stranger’s neck with a sick pop, blood splattering her like a walking Jackson Pollock as she numbly followed Laney from the room.

“How’d she do?”

And there he was, her murderous elephant in the flesh. He was leaning over the dining room table with a distracted look in his eyes as he half turned to them, the sharp gaze making her face flush as she tried to roll back her suddenly racing heart.

“Harley's a natural, Boss.” Laney nodded, shooting the same knowing look back at her.

"She is isn't she?" He grinned.

Harley forced herself to straighten up.

" _She_ is right here," she reminded them both primly, face twisting as she caught sight of her shirt and added in a grumble, "and she would kill for a shower."

Her sink-baths were just not cutting it anymore.

“What? Oh-” his attention had already moved back the plans spread out in front of him. Reams of blue and white paper coated in his familiar scrawl, spikey capital letters and stick figures. That’s why she almost missed the catch when he reached into his pocket and tossed something at her, “use mine. Make yourself pretty, we're going out tonight.”

It was a keychain. A keychain with one rusty key and several neon coloured poms poms hanging off it.

She stared at it blankly. “Out?”

“Yeah yeah, what d'ya think I’ve been teaching you for? Shits and giggles?” He waved her away impatiently, Laney already slipping out of the door as if she’d never been there at all, “just don’t touch anything. I don’t want you going boom before we even step outta the house.”

Just like that she was dismissed and he’d returned to his work, his brow furrowed in concentration.

She stumbled away, mounting the stairs on someone else’s legs. There was the door. The one she'd never even dared trying to open before. The one with the J painted on it, smack bang in the centre of a dozen smiley faces and a dripping golden crown.

Her room had a H on it now.

His and Hers.

_He could make you more. Like he is._

Her hands shook as she unlocked the door, stepping into a hushed world she’d hardly even let herself think about before. It was almost impossible to imagine Jerome sleeping, scars relaxing into something peaceful, _vulnerable,_ not when he was always so ridiculously awake.

But there was the bed.

Unmade purple sheets on a mattress flat to the floor. Paper was scattered everywhere. Clothes and costumes piled up on every surface that wasn’t covered in ammo and knives and guns and grenades.

She’d never seen so many weapons.

It would be so easy to take one, that assault rifle there, or the fucking _Tommy Gun_ hanging over his bed with the stuffed bear nailed next to it. She could grab it, kick open the door and mow them down before they said a word.

But she didn’t.

Instead she moved towards the open door of his washroom, the sight of a shower like the one they’d had in the back of the science lab at school just peeking through the door. She waded carefully through the sea of scrap paper and energy drink cans towards it before her gaze caught on the cork board hanging over his overcrowded desk and she froze.

It was three inches thick with paper.

Motivational cat posters intertwining with blueprints and crime scene photographs, obituaries and more news paper articles she could count. Her own face stared back at her from the centre, the article held in place with a knife. A big red smile scribbled over her mouth.

_Wayne Foundation to Host Prom for Survivors of the Gotham State High Massacre._

She reached for it, startling back as someone cleared their throat loudly from behind her.

“What did I say Harley?”

“No touching,” she squeaked, snatching her hands back and holding them up in surrender, “just looking.”

“Atta girl,” he nodded, throwing a clean towel at her. His mission apparently.

She caught it clumsily, holding the deceptively soft fabric between her fingers as he learnt against the door frame looking at her like he could see right through her.

He wasn’t smiling, not like he usually did, that stretched out grin that always seemed a split-second away from tearing his face open. He was just standing, looking, gazing at her like he could see all the way into her squishy soft vulnerable places.

Worse, like he could see all the boney, thorny brittle places she’d hidden deep down beneath them. The parts of her that had _always_ been callous and selfish and violent. The things that now she’d begun letting out of the box she was terrified she’d never be able to put back in.

“Thanks,” she said holding the towel up to her chest, trying to smile and failing.

“Hm.” He didn’t move, didn’t blink. That lazy, languid gaze drinking her in by the mouthful and leaving her shivering.

Was he going to _stay_ there?

He hadn’t tried to kiss her again, not since that first day, but she’d seen him looking sometimes. Rarely. Eyes lingering on her mouth with a dark, hungry curiosity she could hardly believe was aimed at her. Like he wanted to bite off her tongue just to see how she tasted.

Like he was looking at her now.

And sometimes she almost wanted…

She swallowed tightly, her heart beating so loudly she was afraid he could hear it as he gazed at her under hooded eyes.

God, _was_ he just going to stand there? Was she going to let _him?_

The thought ran hot beneath her skin, squeezing low in her stomach and leaving her breathless. She was already naked to him in every other way after all. He’d stripped her down to the base roots of her sanity, seen every dark deed, every wicked thought.

Why not the rest?

Her mouth went dry, pulse thundering in her ears as her lips parted. Opening to ask - to say - to…

He was already gone. The door clicking shut behind him with a quiet finality that made her head spin.

What the fuck was wrong with her?   


—-

 

What the fuck was wrong with him?

Jerome balled his hands into fists, squeezing until it hurt as he paced away from the room. Waiting until he heard the water running before he lashed out at the wall. Dust raining from the drywall as he bit back a grunt.

The pain didn’t help. Not like it usually did.

He couldn’t understand it.

Understand _himself._

All he knew was that if she didn’t stop staring up at him with those limpid blue fucking eyes, all dark and needy and _understanding_ soon he didn’t know what he was going to do with himself.

It was too distracting, too _much_ , he hated to admit it but maybe he should have just killed her when he met her. Saved ‘em all the trouble. He could still do it, march in there now and take her out before she could fuck up anything else about him.

Clean house. Sweep her away like she’d never been there at all.

He was whirling on his heel, hand already reaching for a weapon when he stopped himself.

“No no no,” he muttered to himself in a breathless sing song, “nooooope.”

It would be a waste, he’d worked too hard on her. She was the perfect block of marble for him to carve away at, shaping and sculpting and revealing the creature within. The blood splattered laughing _maniac_ he knew down to his bones was in there screaming to get out.

No killing. Not her. Not yet.

No. Tonight was her coming out party. Her sweet sixteenth, well no he was almost two years too late for that, but a _bonanza_ anyway.

Tonight he’d give her a real taste of life. Of adrenaline and copper and _fun._

He could always kill her later, if she became a problem. But tonight… tonight was their first - _second_ proper date and he wasn’t going to show up stag.

If only she’d _hurry the hell up_ and get ready.

The door opened on cue and he almost groaned. Wet hair, wet shoulders, bright red towel wrapped around her. Lithe and awkward with a bundle of bloody clothes under her arm.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.

He almost laughed when she met his gaze, a rabbit in the headlights at finding him right outside the door. He could see the delicate little muscles in her throat working as she swallowed, God he wanted to just wrap his _fist_ around it and and-

And he didn’t want to laugh anymore.

Double fuck. Did he still want to kill her or…

Didn’t matter. Nope. She was awkwardly rushing past and he was letting her go. No time for that nonsense. Not now.

They had a date with destiny and she wasn’t the only one who needed to get gussied up.

Although his shower was gonna be a helluvalot colder than he liked.

 

—-

 

Harley cringed at her reflection the broken glass. The bruises had gone down, the swelling practically non existent now, leaving her looking back like nothing had happened.

Her. Just her.

Harleen.

The girl who’d have to deal with this when it was all over. The one who would make it _real._

She couldn’t face it. Not yet. Not when she was so close to freedom.

They were going _out._

And if they went out she could break away, she could save herself at last.

But she couldn’t move. Not with Harleen reflected back at her a dozen times in the broken mirror, tears dripping in hateful waves down her cheeks as she slammed her hands against the sink.

She wasn’t ready. Not yet. She couldn’t confront every horrific thing she’d done, how easily she’d done it, how _good_ it sometimes felt to shut up and do as she was told. To cut and kill and take her power back.

The way an eyeball felt when she’d popped it out of a skull. Sick and satisfying and _gross._ The thump of a bullet through a knee cap. A knife through an ear.

How something in her had _preened_ when he praised her.

How she’d almost let him… how she almost _wanted_ him to…

No.

Harleen couldn’t do it.

She ripped open the medicine cabinet, hands trembling as she snatched up the greasepaint and kohl. Rubbing the ends of her hair with the sticky, half dried remnants of hair dye left in the bottles and rinsing out the rest. There wasn’t enough for the whole lot so she worked in parts. Pretty pink on the tips of one side, bruised blue on the other.

The lipstick came next, a blood red stick that she smeared carefully over her lips. The last of the Xanax tipped down her throat as she snatched up the kohl, blackening her eyes with it. Smudging it carefully down into the dark circles she’d been nurturing since she got there. Picking and pulling at herself until she didn’t want to scream when she looked in the glass.

It wasn’t Harleen anymore. She was safe somewhere far far away waiting for the day she would be freed from her tower. The day that would come ever so soon if she could just pull herself together.

No. The girl looking back at her was Harley, _his Harley,_ staring at her like the most familiar stranger she’d ever seen.

Sucking in a deep breath she let it out in a high pitched giggle of relief and _smiled._

Jerome was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, a different suit this time. Emerald green. His hair darkened with gel, slicked back from his burning eyes as she made her way to the landing.

His jaw fell when he saw her, a cartoon reaction complete with a drawn out wolf whistle and exaggerated ‘ _hubba hubba’_ noises. She just laughed, floating down the steps in her going out clothes.

Black leggings and someone’s oversized white dress shirt unbuttoned more than it should have been, the ends tied up around her waist and the sleeves rolled up above her elbow. Under it she wore her prom skirt, What was left of it at least after she’d hacked away at the layers, a short little tulle ballet skirt still crumpled and creased and crispy with blood stains.

It was the reaction she’d always wanted, she thought dimly. Movie perfect. Her date waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, stunned stupid by her grand entrance. Somewhere behind him Laney had returned with a camera, flash bursting as Jerome took her arm and they posed for pictures.

This was what she’d dreamed about.

Only it wasn’t. It was a prelude to a horror show and they all knew it.

So why did it still feel so _good?_

 


	8. Big Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end is most definitely nigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd here we are! I combined the last chapter and epilogue since they were kinda short on their own (my apologies!) my forever thanks as always to people still reading and - gah I'll save the emotional stuff for the end of the chapter! So yeah - enjoy!

 

There was an explosion far off in the distance, orange flames licking at the night sky. Harley girl had been fidgeting in her seat ever since they’d left the hideout but she stopped at the sound, turning to look.

The streetlights brought her to life, gilding her features and deepening her shadows. She looked crazy.

_ Perfectly  _ crazy.

Hell, it had been bad enough when she’d appeared at the top of the stairs in that kooky get up with her hair in pigtails and a big beautiful smile on her face. He’d almost short circuited at the sight. But now, in the night air of the real world, she’d truly come  _ alive.  _ The carefully applied makeup on her doll face making her look beautiful and frightening all at once. Approachable and dangerous. Kiss or kill.

His Harley. A walking contradiction.

“What was that?” She asked as the van drove on, craning her neck to see the damage as they hurtled through the narrow streets. Another explosion bursting against the horizon. And another.

A slow clap to his achievements.

“That Harley Girl was my gift to parents everywhere,” he grinned, smug satisfaction curling like a cat around his ribs as he leant back in his seat, “no cell phone towers, no cell phones! The kids will have to talk to each other for a change - shock horror!”

“But why?” she asked, tongue snaking catlike over her lipstick as she watched them go up in a line. The distant fire flickering in her eyes like it had always been there.

“Why not?” He shrugged, tugging at her hair to get her to sit still again, to focus on him like she should do,  “Besides we needed a little distraction, something to keep the piggies off balance while we redistribute some of the city’s wealth.”

That shocked her, dazed blue eyes turning glass sharp as they fixed on his again. The fire was still there. He knew it would be.

“You’re going to rob a bank?” Her brows shot up and he found himself chuckling, clucking her under the chin as her mouth parted in surprise.

“Nooo,” he shook his head, “ _we’re_ going to rob a bank. Well, we’re getting the money out anyway, sharing the love. Ah _-_ pull over Bucko,” 

Jerome pulled his hands away from Harley as the bank came into view, he was being far too handsy already. Ungentlemanly in the _extreme._ She just looked so touchable tonight with her fluffy skirt and smooth skin, _tactile._ And he always got itchy fingers before a big show, adrenaline roaring in his ears like the open ocean as shivers chased beneath his skin.

The anticipation was  _ everything. _

“It’s Geronimo, boss.” The henchman interrupted his thoughts, pulling him back to himself as he drew the van into the side.

“Really?” That was odd, he squinted at the reflection the rear view mirror, “what happened to Bucko?”

“Uh - you killed him boss. A while ago.”

“Did I?” He lifted his eyebrows before shrugging and loading up his gun, focused once more. “Oh well. That’s how it goes.”

The sidewalk outside was crowded with reporters, they'd gathered in front of the palatial edifice for the grand reopening ceremony that was due to start at any minute. The one that had been planned for weeks. They’d scattered a little, cameras at odd angles as tried to follow the distant chaos, the bank manager stuttering and starting with his giant scissors in the middle of it all. 

Jerome would get them back on track soon enough.

They didn’t know it yet but they were waiting for him to get there, practically begging him to take charge and give Gotham what it really craved. Money. Mayhem. Chaos. Ready for him to reveal his protege, his best joke yet. A coupla weeks and a lot of elbow grease and he’d stripped back her sanity like layers on an onion. Carefully whittling away to the juicy, vicious centre within.

It was electric.

“Ready Harley?”

_ Lights. Cameras. _

He looked at her, saw her eyes widen. Her jaw tense. That beautiful broken brain of hers ticking like a clock behind her makeup.

She nodded.

_ Action. _

Something tugged at him, that nameless want as she met his gaze, a low growl that rumbled through him. The hot roar of victory and base vicious  _ feeling. _

Fuck it, why not? They might all die tonight for all he knew.

Throwing caution to the wind he snatched up her chin again, holding it tightly as he slanted his mouth over hers. Taking exactly what his animal brain wanted. It felt just as good the first time, even without the audience, that itchy hot feeling burning beneath his skin again as she gasped against his mouth. Silk soft lips bumping against his scars as he dragged his tongue across her pearly whites. Smearing that perfect lipstick of hers all over her face.

He groaned, pulling back when he remembered that oxygen was a thing and oh yeah - there was mayhem that needed causing. Mind razor sharp and his own again he was already moving past it, moving onwards, ready for the real fun to begin as she gaped at him in the low light.

Still, it was a hell of a way to start the party.  
  


—-

 

Her mouth  _ burnt _ . Bruised and smudged and throbbing in time with her racing heart beat as she pressed her fingers to her lips.

She could still feel his kiss even now, not that it _was_ a kiss, not like any she’d ever known before anyway. It was a _claiming._ A power move that had shaken her to her core and left her dazed and gasping and utterly fucked because it had felt… _good_.

Better than good.

It was like being swept up by a forest fire. Hit by a semi truck. Shaken up like a bottle of champagne and left to burst.

When he touched her like that she forgot who she was. Who she wanted to be.

All she could think about was  _ him. _

So she’d stumbled dazedly out of the truck behind him, kept her place beside Jimmy like she was supposed to as the rest of them fanned out, corralling the crowd with their semi automatics as J stole the show.

“Layyydeees and gentlemen don’t be alarmed it’s me, your friendly neighbourhood manic back again to put the  _ laughter  _ in slaughter! Well, that looked better on paper but HO HUM!” 

She couldn’t look away from him, he was completely in his element as he mugged for the camera. The most real thing she’d ever seen as he danced back and forth like he was born for the chaos of it all. Like he couldn’t,  _ shouldn’t _ exist anywhere else.

Floodlights painted him like a picture, larger than life and twice as breathtaking.

“I’ve come to give you a little bit of fun, a little bit of chaos, and a whole loooooot of  _ money.  _ Tax free Benjamins, that’s right ya heard it hear first folks! So come on down and join the party - take back what’s rightfully yours! Harley-“

Oh God that was her. That was  _ her.  _ Jimmy elbowed her and she stumbled forward, a smile plastered on her face as she half skipped to J’s side. She didn’t have a weapon. Not yet. Even if she did she didn’t know what she’d do with it.  She couldn’t think of anything beyond him. Of who she’d become under his hand. 

How did she look to all those people watching? On those cameras? Did she look like a victim next to him or… did she strike them like he did?

The thought churned inside of her, a broken bottle pang of  _ want.  _ To be beyond herself.

To be  _ infamous. _

“Here she is, Gotham this is my  _ lovely  _ assistant Harley, Harley, Gotham. Now the introductions are over,” he held out the comically oversized scissors to her with that deranged grin of his, a smudge of her lipstick still painting its edges. His eyes burning, gloating, daring her to do something. “Wanna do the honours?”

She took them, fingers only shaking a little as they sat heavy in her hands, shiny bright under the spotlights and surprisingly sharp. The terrified camera man swung around to get her in shot as she hesitated there, frozen in place.

This was it. Her chance. What she’d been waiting for for  _ weeks,  _ what she’d killed and maimed for. She swept all thoughts of infamy aside as she remembered the truth. That this was her big finale, probably the only opportunity she’d ever get to be  _ truly  _ free of him. To get revenge. To prove once and for all she was the hero of her own fucking story and he couldn’t stop her.

Now was the time to finish what she’d started a lifetime ago at the prom, at the  _ school.  _

Third and second ribs. Big red cross. 

He’d shown her how to do it, she realized, stomach clenching as the thought swept over her. He’d spent weeks teaching her  _ exactly _ how to kill him when she got the chance. How to take back her life.

Then he’d handed her the weapon.

_ Kill him kill him kill him.  _ Her mind roared as she teetered on the edge of the abyss.  _ KILL HIM. _

“Sure thing Mistah J.”

She cut the ribbon. 

  
  


 

 

**EPILOGUE**

  
  


The standoff hadn’t lasted more than an hour Harley realized afterwards, although it felt like a lifetime at the time. Her veins heavy with a potent mix of terror and adrenaline, head spinning with the life or death burst of emotions as she’d thrown handful after handful of money to the baying crowd. As she watched them tear each other apart to get to her, to get to the cash, doing all the terrible things Jerome suggested for a single paper buck.

Like any of it  _ mattered _ . She’d felt so high above them it left her dizzy, laughing as they chanted her name and J beamed at her in pride. Money was useless. Power… chaos… that’s what it all came down to in the end. What J had been trying to show her.

She’d felt so alive it hurt.

Glorious and strange and  _ real. _

But then the police had come. J had been taken down laughing and hauled away and she… she remembered she was a victim. A kidnapped teenager subjected to mental torments beyond her years.

This had been  _ done  _ to her.

Everything turned cold, numb and surreal as the world crashed down around her. The police muttering about her  _ trauma  _ as they shone their lights into her unseeing eyes. Mistah J’s final words still ringing in her ears.

“See ya real soon Harley Girl,” he’d cackled as they dragged him away, bright and beautiful as he’d ever been and just as terrifying, “don’t forget about me now!”

Like she ever could…

Could she?

Could she let this be a nightmare? A bad dream it was safe to wake from now she was gently being led away by a detective. His sympathy practically drowned her as she thought about it all with a distant calm. 

Was it safe to be Harleen again?

Was she ready to give up on the danger, the mayhem and murder and constant dizzy rush of adrenaline for real life again. Could she go back to the plan like nothing had happened?

Could she give up…   _ him? _

Even questioning it in her own head felt wrong, the sickest of sick, he was a monster. Unquestionably. A killer and a maniac. But when she was with him… she’d never felt like that before, every emotion running deep enough to scar. Never hated anyone like she hated him, never wanted anyone…

It was fifty shades of fucked up and she knew it.

There was police tape outside, flashing lights, camera bulbs and shouting. Bright daylight flashes that made her head spin as the detective tried to pry secrets out of her she didn’t know.

Where was the base. What was his plan. What had he made her do. 

All the while assuring her she was safe, it was over now.

It was over.

She’d escaped.

She’d  _ survived. _

He was right, that's what mattered now.  It was time to start shoving it all behind her so she could  _ heal.  _ Move on. Forget about J, about all of this.

_ It was over. _

“Just a few more questions,” the detective was saying. He was thirty something, clean shaven and tired looking, so tired. She recognised him vaguely, from the news maybe. From the school. "Then we can get you back to your mom, I'm sure she's anxious to see you Harleen."

Something panged inside of her as she straightened her shoulders, meeting his gaze at last.

“Call me Harley,” she smiled, “Everyone does.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Welp that’s part one done! I truly hope you enjoyed this little jaunt as much as I did, I would absolutely love it if you left a comment if you did (they make my life!) but thank you anyway for sticking with it and making it to the end anyway! I can't tell you how much it means to me that you decided to read this! <333
> 
> AAAAND if you’re still thirsty for more madness the sequel to this story is now up! It’s called ‘Flirting with Insanity’, is complete and can be found on my profile! I hope you enjoy it!))


End file.
